Black Horse and the Cherry Tree
by silver ruffian
Summary: Dean's past life as Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, catches up with him when his black horse comes looking for him during a hunt that goes south. Up now: Sam and the Horsemen stand against the angels. God works in mysterious ways.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Story title taken from the KT Tunstall song of the same name. I've twisted canon a little. What? No, you're surprised at that? Huh. I've also AU'd the four horsemen of the apocalypse. This story contains violence, cussing, and character deaths. *Taps foot impatiently.* Ye have been warned. It's _Halloween weekend_, people!

Summary: Dean's past life as Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, catches up with him when his black horse comes looking for him during a hunt that does south. Dark AU.

**_Then:_**

His head hurts.

He can't remember exactly where he dropped his shotgun, and the only thing he's got left on him is his silver knife, which means he'll have to get close enough _-- too damn close --_ to stab the fugly in the heart. Repeatedly.

Before those huge hooves pound him into a grease spot on the ground.

Something blindsided him. Dean remembers that much, something large and fast. Felt like the night sky just dropped on top of him, fierce and muscular and raging, never mind that the sun's out, shining overhead. He doesn't think he was out for _that_ long. Getting picked up and body slammed into a friggin' tree hurts just as much as being picked up and slammed into a friggin' wall, and Dean briefly wonders why nearly every fugly he and Dad hunt lately tries to use him as a human tennis ball.

Dean's been off his game ever since Sam left for college months ago. Maybe he's broadcasting some sort of signal, some kind of sound that only fugs can pick up. _Come and get me. Kick my ass, why don't you. _

The hell of it was, during the drive to the bus station, Sam had the nerve enough to ask Dean how he was _feeling_. Hell of a time for a chick flick moment, bro. Dean huffed laughter, a sharp, broken sound, and he should have known fucking better, should have kept his damn mouth _shut_.

He didn't.

"The three of us, that's all we have, and it's all** I** have. Sometimes I feel like I'm barely holding it together, man. Without you or Dad…"

Sam stuck his chin up and out defiantly. That wasn't the kind of thing he wanted to hear. He was too busy being righteous and angry, and Dean realized too late that Sam's anger included _him_, as well as Dad.

One more kick in the teeth. One more epic fail. Dean could kill demons, vanquish angry spirits and slay all manner of fuglies, but he couldn't even keep his own family together. Just another day in the life.

Right arm's dislocated, dead, useless. Luckily he's just as handy with his left (_thanks, Dad_), but still, it's awkward as hell with that sizzle of adrenaline twitching his muscles, surging through his veins. It's almost too much, makes his heart and breath hitch in his chest. Dean knows he needs to settle himself, _right the hell NOW_.

He's barely aware of how his breathing shifts into what he and Sam used to call combat Lamaze. Dean breathes in for four counts, holds for four counts, breathes out for four counts, holds for four, then does it all again. He goes from breathing quick, fast and ragged to the steady four count as he stumbles forward on the uphill slope, through the brush. He tightens his grip on the knife in his left hand, cradles his right side with that useless right arm of his.

He glances back, and yep, it's still there, following him. Pitch black, gliding silently between the dark green shadows and splashes of sunlight. It moves more cat-like than horse-like, and this son-of-a-bitch is _huge._

Bobby supposed that it was a puca, or a kelpie maybe. Sucker some unsuspecting dummy onto its back and then take them away for the ride of their lives. That was the best case scenario.

Dean has a pretty good idea what worst case would be.

Somehow he makes it up to the top of the hill, and nothing's happened yet. Maybe the patron saint of hunters is feeling charitable this time. Maybe this time he's finally gonna get a break, yeah, a good break, a little good luck would be nice…

_Or not._

From behind Dean hears the thing whinny, a high-pitched sound, almost a shriek, and those massive hooves hit the ground at a dead run. As Dean turns he grips the knife in his left hand, ready to start slashing with it, for what little good it'll do. The thought of going down quietly doesn't even occur to him.

The damn thing runs right past him, wheels around and stands there, stamping its feet, shaking that chiseled head and that long tangled black mane at him. Dean backs up, quick fast and in a hurry. Every instinct inside him screams at him not to drop the damn knife, but he does it anyway as he lands on his ass with an awkward thump, braces himself with his good arm.

The fugly walks towards him slowly, head down, neck stretched out, ears pricked, whinnying and nickering. It stops three feet away and then just stands there, shaking its head _no no no_, over and over again, making that rumbling sound deep in its throat.

"What the hell d'ya want from me!" Dean finally yells. He's _pissed_. He's had it with the cat and mouse game, horse and mouse, whatever the hell game this damned thing's playing.

The horse thing shakes its head right back at him, rears up and comes down hard with both forelegs on the ground. Clods of dirt fly up into the air and Dean leans back to avoid getting hit.

Now that he's close enough, nearly nose to nose, he gets a really good look at how huge this damn thing is. It looks like an oversized Arabian. Sleek, coal black, not a speck of color anywhere, except for those reddish gold eyes and those too bright white teeth. It snorts fire and steam with each flex of those wide red nostrils. Muscles shiver underneath that smooth fine coat.

_What the hell… _The fingers of Dean's left hand twitch in response.

_Stupid_, Dean tells himself. He wants to touch it, wants to run his fingers over that sleek black fur. He's sitting there on the ground like some dazed, mind-fucked civilian when he should be looking around for his knife. People have died because of this thing. It smashed its way into houses and stomped the humans inside into jelly. That was why Bobby called Dad. They had a job to do, people to save, something evil to kill.

Only…

_Why's it just standing there?_

Dean sits up straighter, his useless right arm in his lap. The fugly pricks its ears at the change in his position and stares at him intently.

_Stupid fuckin' idea. Don't do it…don't ---_

He raises his hand, palm out, fingers flat, spread a little. The horse-fugly stops and stares, ears pricked, then delicately walks forward, placing each hoof daintily _here here here_ and_ here_, like so.

It lowers its head and those soft whiskers tickle as they brush the skin of his palm. The touch sends a shiver of pleasure jolting up Dean's spine.

The horse whuffs, its breath warm against his skin. It mouths Dean's palm with those soft flexible lips, and if he had any sense he should be fucking afraid that it's just suckering him in, that it'll suddenly twist its head to the side, bare sharp jagged teeth and rip his damn arm off.

It lips his fingertips, then his palm, right down to the heel of his hand, forwards and backwards, then it backs up, quiet, as it briskly shakes its head up and down.

_Yes. Yes._

_Yes what?_ Dean wonders.

The sense of loss he feels when the thing pulls back confuses him. This is _wrong_. This is_ all_ wrong.

It takes him a few false starts to get to his feet. Plays hell with the macho image he'd like to project, _isthatallyou**got**,bitch_? but he's only human after all, and his body clearly has other ideas.

His knife's in the grass, a few feet away. The critter just stands there, making this soft sound like a kitten purring.

Dean stumbles and wobbles onto his feet like a newborn foal. He cautiously eases past the thing, up to the line of tall brush and trees ahead, and he leans over, stops and stares. "Oh, fuck me," Dean whispers roughly, and his throat's so dry it hurts.

Beyond the brush the hillside drops down and away into a pretty impressive six hundred fifty foot drop into the picture post card perfect valley below. If he'd kept on walking he would've walked out onto thin air, done a pretty good imitation of Wile Coyote doing an air dance, just before our good friend Mr. Gravity took over and splattered him all over the hillside below.

The horse thing pricks its ears up, snorts, then stretches out its neck and whickers at him.

"Don't expect me to thank your sorry ass," Dean snaps, and the thing jerks back, eyes wide, obviously offended by the sharp tone in his voice. "Wouldn't have come up here in the first damn place if it hadn't been for you."

Those large black shoulders slump and it hangs its head, big ears pointed in opposite directions, the very picture of rejection.

Dean walks past, tries to control the shakiness in his knees. God he hates heights, hates the Great Outdoors. He grunts softly in pain, the skin around his eyes crinkling with effort as he leans down to scoop up the knife with his left. Gray spots dance around the edge of his vision. The ground comes rushing up at him, and it takes an effort not to let go, to just keep on falling. He's tired, and the ground looks soft like a bed.

Dean pulls himself upright with a visible effort.

The thing snorts as it follows Dean down the hill, trailing behind him like some hopeful little kid.

**_000000_**

He makes it to the bottom of the hill just fine, but then he has trouble remembering how to walk. Something warm and sticky runs down the right side of his face, and that dull heavy ache inside his skull starts throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Dean stares at his feet as he concentrates on putting them down and picking them up. The ground is a lot further away than he thought it was.

He stumbles, loses his balance and almost topples over sideways. Sam's there to push him back up.

Or maybe it's Dad. Dean's not really sure at this point.

It happens several more times. Each time he's gently nudged back upright, but after the fourth time it dawns on him that _hell, that can't be right._

Dean turns his head slightly to the left, and right beside him he sees a broad back, powerful muscles moving smoothly underneath glass smooth coal black fur. Large reddish gold eyes turn towards him, and Dean's swallowed up. He can't look away; he doesn't want to. The last thing he remembers is grabbing handfuls of mane with numb clumsy fingers before he slides into darkness as black as the thing's hide.

He can hear Dad now. _Whatever you do, don't get on its back, Dean. Don't._

Too late.

**_000000_**

Nothing else matters now, only the sun and sky above them, the grassland that stretches all around. He's relaxed now, totally pain free. That tightness he usually carries in his back and shoulders is gone. He sees Sam and Dad, but it's different now. There's no heat associated with any of it.

Dean hears voices, angry and sharp --

_I can't live like this anymore, Dad. I'm done with this life. _

_You go out that door, Sam, don't bother coming back, you hear me?_

--- but the voices get fainter with every step the black horse takes.

It's been a while since Dean rode, whether for pleasure or on a job. He fell in love with horses from the first time he ever saw one, learned to ride when he was ten, but it's one of the things that Dean keeps hidden inside. Whatever he loves dies. That's a lesson he learned that November night years ago back in Lawrence.

He shifts his weight to match her motion as she walks. She responds to the slight pressure of his thighs, his hand light on the side of her long swanlike neck. The slow, stately walk shifts into a brisk trot, free and easy. Dean balances on her bare broad back, moves to match her rhythm. Sense memory makes his skin tingle.

After twenty feet or so Dean firmly grabs that handful of mane a little more securely as he gently nudges her with his heels. He's giving her permission to run, letting her know that it's all right, he's fine with it.

He leans forward a little, balancing over her center. She's all tightly coiled energy, and he knows it, but even then he's still not fully prepared when she takes off.

_Son of a bitch._

She has a long stride, fluid and smooth, too long even for a horse that size. It feels like she puts up a sail between strides, just hangs there in mid-air for a moment. They take that sloping hillside no problem, and she moves so easily, so gracefully, that he's almost tempted to head back to that other hill and leap off the cliff edge into space.

She'd do it if he asked her to. He has no doubt she could fly.

Dean whoops, loud, wild and joyful, as they come out of the run. She tosses her head, dances sideways as she slows down.

_I didn't mean to hurt you. I was angry_, the black says softly, inside Dean's head.

_Why?_

_You left me. You left us. _

_Oh. Hell. _All this time Dean thought he was the one who did the staying, he was the one who never left.

He senses the exact moment when the sky darkens overhead. The black steps daintly, avoiding the bones and human wreckage on the ground all around them. Human remains carpet the fields as far as the eye can see. Bones and bodies, and some of them are still alive. Barely. They move feebly on the ground, trying to get away, and none of it moves Dean. It's death by violence, disease, and starvation. He's seen it all before, different times, different places. It's all the same.

The air is ripe with the stench of rotting meat and disease. Dean smiles to himself. They've done good work here. He turns his mount around and the others follow him out.

"Knew you'd remember this life," the black dude says. He sits his big red horse proudly. His dark locked hair coils tight past his shoulders like a lion's mane. He wears denim and leathers, dusty from the road. There's a reddish-orange glint in the man's eyes. Dean's eyes glow in response as he looks at the others.

The rider on the white horse is a surprise. She's a little girl, couldn't be more than eight, nine years at the most. Long wavy red hair, a pert upturned nose, with freckles and the face of an angel. Her own eyes give the game away. Ancient and ageless. She sees him looking at her and grins.

Four horse_men_? Well, don't believe the hype.

The Hispanic dude is just as broad as that huge dappled grey horse of his. He has a broad, pleasant face. "It's a new day now," he rumbles. "Come ride with us, brother. We can't do this thing without you."

"_Dean?"_

The voice startles him. There's urgency, and fear. The fear's well-hidden but it's there just the same. Everything around Dean fades in and out on twin tracks, the darkened killing field in one blink of an eye, the wide open sunlit valley in another.

"Dean! Where are you?"

Dean stops short. Fifty feet away he sees John Winchester walking out in the open, shotgun at the ready, with Bobby Singer covering his back. Neither man notices the carnage all around them. It fades in and out around them at first. John and Bobby are scratchy negative images of themselves, but their color fills in and they get more solid as Dean stares at them.

The black tosses her head angrily.

"_Dad._" Dean whispers. As soon as he says the word a sharp spike of pain pierces the space between his eyes.

_Your body remembers. Your spirit does. You don't belong with them. You were ours…you were **mine** before you ever belonged to them. _Dean can feel the rage rising up from the black's skin. _We moved as one. We were like nothing the world has ever seen, before or since._

Dean thinks of John and Sam. Each time he does the pain inside him sharpens, a bright ice pick of agony that churns his insides.

_The three of us, that's all we have, and it's all** I** have._

"I can't. I can't do this," Dean stammers. The pain doubles him over, and he slides gracelessly off the black's back. "I can't leave my Dad and my brother. I just…I can't."

The mood of the others around him changes instantly. There's sorrow and anger in her thought voice as the black moves away from him, her ears flattened against her head. _Remember this, Dean. Everything ends. Whether you want it to or not. Everything ends._

Dean turns and stares at his father, takes a few stumble-steps in that direction. The throbbing ache in his right arm sears his nerve endings as it travels up his shoulder to his head. He steps forward, and the scene around him shifts. He's ankle deep in blood one step, underneath a maroon dark sky, stumbling forward in a sunlit field the next.

John stops and stares directly at him. "Dean?" John rumbles.

Bobby looks on, startled. He steps back, tightens his hold on that shotgun of his. "John, he stepped out of thin air. What the hell is going on here?"

"Dad," Dean breathes. Another step, further into the sunlight, the horsemen at his back.

Dean barely feels it when he falls to his knees with a heavy thump. The ground is soft underneath him, and that's all he wanted now, someplace soft to land, somewhere safe to just lie down and rest for a bit. It's all good. Dad's here.

So's Bobby.

Dean curls up on the ground, and John's hands move over him, rough and capable, turning him over onto his back, assessing the damage. John hisses under his breath when he sees the deep cuts and bruises, the blood matting the left side of Dean's hair, thick streaks of dark blood striping Dean's face.

John curses when he sees Dean's dislocated shoulder.

_It's okay,_ Dean wants to say, but he's too tired to even form the words. It's hard to speak, even harder to keep his eyes open. _'m just tired, that's all._ _Nothing to get excited about_. _Just gimme a minute. That's all I need, just a minute…_

"Dean? Dean!" That echo is funny, reminds Dean of that time in that funhouse up in Milwaukee. Dean laughs out loud, a tired, wheezy exhale of breath that makes his lungs rattle.

"This isn't funny, kiddo," John rumbles. "You're not dying on me, Ace, not today, not ever. That's an order."

Dean mumbles "…sorry…sorry…" even though his mouth feels too loose and too weird. He breathes in darkness and everything grows soft, dim and quiet.

He can't stay awake, but he's not going anywhere, not yet, anyway. Dad told him not to.

**_000000_**

_**Lest you think I'm taking it easy on you by not having a more devious cliffie, let me assure you, this story gets darker. This ain't My Little Pony, lemme tell ya. Second and final chapter will be posted on Tuesday. **_


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry about the late posting. Took a little time off to celebrate. If Barack hadn't won I'd be in Canada by now. (Hmm, Vancouver seems nice…)

_**A/N:**_ Yeah, I know I said only two chapters, but then it dawned on me that if I expanded the story of John, Dean and Sam on the road that would make what happens in the third and final chapter that much more heart breaking.

Yep. I'm_ evil_, all right.

BTW: No one seems to have a clear idea how much time Sam spent at Stanford, away from John and Dean. I've read anywhere from two to four years. I'd settled on two years, until Phoebe made some pretty convincing arguments for four years. So four it is. I got an evil plan. More angst, people, more angst.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Dean, John, Bobby.

* * *

**Then:**

Twenty minutes into Dean's golden hour. 1200 seconds gone, and Dean's pale and bloodied, way too still and quiet. He doesn't make a sound, not even when John and Bobby pop his shoulder back into place and fit his shoulder with a field splint. That lack of response worries John, but he concentrates instead on the labored rise and fall of Dean's chest.

"Keep breathing, Dean. I want you to breathe with me, okay? In and out. You're doing just fine, kiddo. Just fine," John whispers. "That's my boy."

_My boy. Huh._ Dean's solid muscle now, and never mind that he's the shortest one of all the Winchesters. John knew things had changed a few years back when he really had to work at beating Dean when they sparred. There were a few times lately when John suspected that Dean let him win. John feels like a damn girl, but as he looks at his son he wonders when his little boy became a man, broad shoulders and all.

Bobby moves around them in a circle. He lays down a thick ring of salt and cat's eyes shells as he chants a protection spell in Latin underneath his breath. He can't see anything, just this large, empty, field all around them. Sun's overhead, it's about one o'clock, but that's not enough to make Bobby relax. Daylight won't protect you from things with teeth. Bobby can't shake this feeling of dread, and he adds a few more prayers on top of the ones he's already used. One prayer has already been answered: cell phone reception out in these parts is fine, for once. Made the call just after Dean showed up. AirMedevac chopper's on the way.

On the edge of reality, a mere fifty feet away, the black horse snorts and tosses her head. She paces back and forth, reddish gold eyes flashing, blowing steam from her nostrils.

_You don't belong with them…_

Dean's eyes flicker wildly behind his closed eyelids. His ridiculously long eyelashes stutter against pale freckled skin. Dean makes a low, desperate sound deep in his throat that raises the hair at the back of John's neck.

"D-Dad-d-d…"

Dean's hand snakes out in John's direction, trembling, panicky. John intertwines his fingers with Dean's and doesn't even flinch as his boy tightens his grip.

_…Dad's here, and he won't leave me…_

John's his lifeline to the real, to the here and now. Dad and Sam are his life, they're all Dean has, all he's got, not that open field, not the bodies and the death and the black horse, not that.

_….he won't let me leave, please, Dad, please…_

"I got you, son," John whispers roughly, pushing the words out past that hard lump in his throat. "I got you. I'm here."

The black horse stops and paws the ground, gouging huge holes in the grass and soil. A part of Dean's soul responds to her, and but she won't come any closer. None of Bobby's precautions could stop her if the black really wanted to cross the salt lines. The other horsemen sit their mounts quietly, somberly. The only thing that keeps all them at bay is the fact that Dean's rejected them, at least for the moment.

Part of him wants to stay. Wants to ride again. It's the part of Dean that feels at home on horseback, that same part, vast and eternal, that smiled when he saw the killing field littered with broken flesh and bones. That part of Dean's spirit pushes impatiently against the boundaries of his bruised, broken skin, but right now it's chained down by the rough touch of John Winchester's hand, the whiskey smooth rumble of Dad's voice.

"…stay with me, son. Stay with me."

John barely lifts his head to look up as the ambulance chopper makes its approach. A small pit forms in his stomach, something he's felt before, here at home, back in 'Nam. He can stay calm and focused while the shit hits the fan, but the sight and sound of that chopper fills John with dread. _What if_ can play hell with a person's mind, drive you fucking crazy if you let it. _What if things go wrong now, after everything that's happened? What if…_

John pushes the feeling back and away. His fingers go numb as his circulation is slowly cut off, but he wills his son to keep right on breathing, wills that iron grip on his hand to remain tight and strong.

Minutes later, AirMedevac lifts off and John's right there, hunkered down beside Dean's gurney. The medics kneel beside Dean, checking his vitals and his IVs.

Down below the black horse rears up on her hind legs, pawing viciously at the sky. She screams angrily as the chopper takes flight.

Bobby pulls off in his truck and doesn't see or hear a thing

_**000000**_

Twenty minutes outbound from McKennan Hospital & University Health Center in Sioux Falls. Twenty minutes. 1200 seconds. A lot can happen in that short period of time, for better or worse. John's ridden in choppers before, back in 'Nam, with the dead and dying, but Dean's not dead, and he's _not_ dying, dammit. He's alive, and he's made it this far.

_Your body remembers._ The black's thought voice is a dim whisper that echoes throughout the empty spaces inside Dean. _Your spirit does._

Fever blossoms underneath Dean's skin, dull, humid and heavy. His temperature spikes two degrees in as many minutes. John feels the changes in Dean's skin, watches that flush spread just underneath Dean's paleness.

Dean's only dimly aware of John's hand in his. Blind unreasoning panic rises up in him. He's losing it, losing Dad…

The landing's a blur. The rush from the helipad to through the double doors to the ER is a mad dash to the finish line, a race against the clock. Dean's got twenty minutes left in his golden hour, and John will have to let go now.

"There's nothing more you can do now, sir. Let us take care of him. Let us work."

_…no…please…_

Dean shudders all over as John's hand slips away from him.

_Dad...don't…don't leave me…_

They roll Dean into one of the resuscitation bays. The doctors and nurses crowd around, take blood, check Dean's vitals. The field splint comes off. So does Dean's bloody, ragged tee shirt so that they can attach another IV, attach leads to more monitoring equipment.

John's never been particularly sensitive, but what he's seeing now makes the hair on the back of his head stand straight up. He can hear this voice inside his head, a deep, throaty rumble that's inhuman but somehow unmistakably female.

_We moved as one._

Something huge and dark on four legs circles around the gurney Dean's lying on. It passes through the doctors and nurses like dark smoke, tossing its head, snorting and rumbling.

All the spit in John's mouth dries up instantly. That smoke thing is horse shaped. Just like the fugly they were hunting.

Dean's eyes blink open, his normally green eyes tinted copper, new penny bright.

_We were like nothing the world has ever seen, before or since._

Dean's face fills with a feral beauty John's never seen before. Dean lunges up off the gurney, kicks and lashes out with the moves John drilled into him. Even when the nurses and orderlies swarm him, try to push him back down, it's no contest. Dean nails the attending physician, a tall, burly dark haired man, sends him spinning into a far corner with one blow.

That predatory grin on Dean's face turns John's blood ice cold.

_…mine now, mine always…_

"Get the hell away from my son, you bitch!" John roars, and the thing hisses in response.

White hot pain flares in his right hand (broken fingers, both of 'em) but he ignores it as he dips his hand into his jacket pocket and seemingly comes up empty handed. John ignores everything but the sight of his eldest son tossing humans around like tennis balls, almost lazily, not caring that he's hurting the people who are trying to help him.

John ducks around an orderly, pushes several of the nurses aside as he bulls his way in. Dean stares at John, his gaze clouded by the shifting sunset in his eyes, the darkness all around, but there's recognition in Dean's eyes, and that's somehow even worse than a blank mindless stare_. Hey there, Dad. You wanna play too?_

Dean's right hand flashes out, catches John by the cuff of his jacket. No skin to skin contact, and Christ, he can hear the bones in his wrist crunch to the breaking point. Dean grins at him as he tightens his grip and John's knees start to buckle.

John grins right back, sly and feral.

_Gotcha._

It's a magic trick. John opens his palm wide enough to press the amulet against Dean's bare chest as he lunges forward. There's skin to skin contact, and that's all it takes to break the connection.

The black horse shrieks as she disappears into thin air. John shouts out the Latin, invoking the protection of Saint Analdus, one of the baddest old time demon slayers the world has ever seen. John's got it all wrong. It was touching Dean that freed the boy for the moment, but John doesn't know that, and he never will.

Security guards swarm in again, get between him and Dean, and even though John knows they're only doing their job he still wants to kick all their asses.

_**000000**_

Dean can't even remember how he got here. He fights, just like he did last time, but he's too weak and it's all wrong. Can't use his right arm. His head hurts so badly he can hardly see straight. There's too damn many of them. They crowd all around him, on top of him, and he can't sense Dad, can't sense anything, and when something sharp is jammed into his arm he bites back the scream that rises up in his throat. He's drowning underneath the press of bodies on top and around him, drowning in the air that's suddenly gotten too warm, too heavy around him. Dean's too weak to fight as he's swept away on a tidal wave of warm, soft darkness.

_**000000**_

Dean opens his eyes sometime later. That elephant in his head has stopped tapdancing and is now content to just jump and down instead.

There's something on the tray in front of him, in a plastic cup. He can't be sure…his eyes aren't cooperating, but whatever this sonofabitch is it wiggles slightly, and Dean doesn't like the look of it. He wants to push it away, but it's too much damn trouble to move.

He feels heavy in the body, sluggish, like he hasn't moved in years. Right shoulder's all wrapped up. Muscles are sprung, and everything hurts. Throat's dry as a bone, and he thinks it might have been because he was yelling, but he can't remember _who_ he was yelling at, or _why_.

So he just lies there, propped up on those damn scratchy pillows. Doesn't have a damned clue where he is, much less how he got there. His nose reports in first. Antiseptic smell. Rubbing alcohol. Beeping sound's next, and Dean realizes that the sound's keeping time with his heart. He feels a hard mattress underneath. Thin, crisp sheets, and he wonders how many other people in the last week lay on this same damn mattress underneath these same damn sheets.

It comes together slowly.

Hospital.

Okay.

Dean frowns, at least he tries to. Even the muscles of his face refuse to cooperate. _Dude, one step at a time, okay? Don't try that at home, boys and girls._ That freakin' hospital gown is bunching up in unspeakable places, and all he can do is just lie there.

"Hey, princess," John rumbles. "How you feeling, kid?"

Dean grunts. John gets up and pours water from one of those plastic pitchers into a cup. Dean lifts his hand up to take the cup…well, at least, he tries to. He thinks about doing it, but apparently his body is on vacation too. John holds the cup to Dean's lips, and that's enough to make Dean start frowning all over again.

_Son of a bitch._ Damn, he _hates_ hospitals, _hates_ being sick. Can't even hold a friggin' Styrofoam cup of water. How fucking sorry is that?

Dean parts his mouth as John tilts the cup slightly. The water's sweet and cool. "Not so fast. Take it easy." The whole cup of water's gone before John pulls the cup away, and Dean stares goggle-eyed at the shiny red blob on the tray in front of him.

"Whuzzat?" comes out in a throaty croak, and John snort-chuckles.

"Jello. Cherry jello."

Dean stares owl-eyed at the cup on the tray, then huffs a weary sigh. "Pass." He closes his eyes for a moment, and it takes an effort for him to open his eyes again, a little more hopefully this time. Maybe the damn thing disappeared while his eyes were closed.

Nope. Still there.

_Damn_. It was worth a shot.

"Burger?" Dean slurs hopefully. What he wouldn't give for just one rapid muscle twitch. Knock that sucker right across the room.

John shakes his head. "Nope. There's always time for Jello, bud." It's stupid and it's lame, and John just doesn't give a good damn right now. His boy's alive and breathing, he's here.

Two minutes later Dr. Harrison comes in the room. He's a short, stocky black guy with silver-rimmed glasses. John quirks an eyebrow at him. "Doc, I wanna thank you for what you did for my boy, Hector."

Dean gets it. "Hector" it is, then.

"Hector" has two broken ribs, minor damage to the ligaments of his right shoulder (no surgery needed, thank God), a bad concussion with no permanent damage, and a pretty wicked right hook. Dean doesn't find out about the fracas in the emergency room right away. Until then he wonders why some of the hospital personnel (security guards and nurses) occasionally stop in the hallway outside his room, point at him and stare like they're viewing the latest big cat exhibit at the zoo.

John also doesn't mention his own sprained wrist and those two broken fingers until Dean asks about it. John can't hide it, so he tells Dean what happened. Of course, during that same conversation John also asks what Dean remembers out there in that field, and Dean says he doesn't remember much. A lot of confusion, and that black horse fugly.

Sometimes John can tell exactly when Dean's lying. This isn't one of those times. Dean convinces himself that all that horseman crap was just a mind-fuck, pure and simple. Bitch got the drop on him while his defenses were down. That was _it_. That was _all_. John could have hooked him up to a lie detector and Dean would have passed with flying colors.

Dean spends the next seven days as a guest of the good folks at McKennan Hospital & University Health Center in Sioux Falls. By the time he stands blinking in the sunlight on the steps of the hospital, he wobbles a little like a newborn foal as he walks over to the Impala. "Hector Aframian's" ribs are taped nice and tight, and he's also wearing a canvas shoulder sling. He has a spare sling and rolls of tape for his ribs in his duffel bag along with a several bottles of pills, anti-inflammatory agents, pain-killers, muscle relaxants. He's also got an instruction sheet of exercises for strengthening his right shoulder and arm after his busted ribs heal.

"Hector" has no insurance, but his father "Bert" put the bill on his credit card. That hospital bill's going to trip all kinds of alarms at the credit card company, but Dean and John will be halfway across the state before that's found out.

Two years of hunting and saving people. They waste ghuls in Nebraska, a cambion in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, of all places. A hunt finds them at a rest stop up near Provo, Utah, when Dean walks in on this huge insect thing chowing down on a couple of truckers in the men's room.

Dean and John spend their nights in skeevy motel rooms and bare bones backwoods cabins, and sometimes there's drugs liberated from hospital pharmacies to dull the pain of broken bones and a little bit of Josè and Jack to blunt the ache of everything else.

Four years on the road with Dad, while Sam plays at being normal at Stanford. John and Dean range all up and down the west coast. They take turns looking in on the kid on campus. Each one pretends that he doesn't realize what the other one is doing. It's a game, and Dean intends to stretch it out for as long as he can.

It does his heart good to see Gigantor on campus, all shaggy haired and intense, with his books and his damn normal life. Dean doesn't really know how Sam would react if he showed himself on campus, so hell no, he doesn't do _that_. That would ruin the game.

Dean calls Sam a lot, leaves voicemail messages: "Hey, geekboy, this is your awesome big brother…" Dean can visualize Sam's bitchface (_I changed this number, how the hell does he keep finding the new one?_), and that's worth the price of admission right there. Dean never gets a call in return, but that's okay too. He knows where Sam is. He always does. It goes on for two years, and yeah, Dean's gotta admit that it pisses him off a little that the brat won't even pick up the phone.

Dean dreams. No big deal. He dreams about the open road, the Impala, and his Mom, before the fire. Dreams about the years on the road after she died, when it was just him and Dad and Sam. Dad was Daddy, and Sam was Sammy, all chubby and giggly, blowing spit bubbles when he got tickled. Sam got tickled _a lot._ He laughed at damn near any and everything then, drummed his fat little heels and laughed until he was red in the face, and in his dreams it's easy for Dean to remember what it was like before _Sammy_ became _Sam_, tall and gangly and rebellious.

Dean doesn't dream about horses anymore.

_**000000**_

Heading back from Jericho, California Dad's more tired than he'd let on. Having an irate Woman in White slam a wooden cabinet into you is guaranteed to slow anybody down, even John Winchester. Dean's secretly thrilled when John tosses him the keys to the Impala and slumps over in the passenger seat. The rough, uneven sound of John snoring is music to Dean's ears.

Things get _mucho weird_ two hours out.

Dean can still see the road, dark and winding under the overhead lights. What happens next startles the hell out of him, but he stays in the lane, doesn't jerk the wheel, or panic. _Much._

Dean sees Sam lying in bed, his face splattered with drops of blood as he stares upwards in horror and disbelief. Dean smells burning flesh, sweet and smoky, and he knows it's Jess. He's seen her walking across campus with Sam several times, all blonde and willowy, tucked underneath Sam's right arm like she's a precious thing. _Dean knows it's her_, he sits there behind the wheel of the Impala watching her burn, and if Dean doesn't get there in time to drag Sam out, Sam's going to willingly throw himself into her funeral pyre.

Dean shags ass like he's never done before, and maybe it was all meant to be, because Dad doesn't wake up until hours later, when Dean hits the brakes in front of Sam and Jess' apartment.

They spend a week in Jericho, gathering information. When the Impala pulls away from Palo Alto for the very last time, Sam Winchester sits in the back bench, pale and quiet.

It was the start of another three good years. Sam, John and Dean were back together again.

Wasn't all sunshine and roses, of course.

After the initial shock of losing Jess wears off, Sam and John pick up right where they left off. The damn arguments start up again, about motel rooms, cereal, diner food, for God's sake. Sam balls his fist up, sticks his chin out, and pretty soon Dad does the same. Dean puts himself in the middle, and that tightness in his back and shoulders comes roaring back.

A year later Dad goes out and buys that big-ass black truck of his. "We can cover more ground this way," Dad says as he flips the keys of the Impala to Dean. Dean was already on shaky ground before; now the quake measures about a five point five on the Richter scale. Dean tells himself that it's not that bad. _Sam's still here. Sam won't leave._

Sam perfects his bitchface, hones it on Dean. Sam complains about hunting everything but the yellow eyed demon. Sam wants to kill the bastard, wants payback for Jess, more than he wants for Mom, and that's when Dean realizes that once they kill that yellow eyed fuck Sam's going to leave. _Again._

Sam still rages at John, but it's from a distance this time. The cryptic phone calls, the coordinates. Sam gets easily offended by anything that John does, and John never fails to disappoint his youngest son. There's Dean's electrocution and his fatally weakened heart, followed by Roy LeGrange's healing touch. Sam never forgives Dad for not coming when Sam leaves that message on his answering machine.

"Hey Dad, it's Sam. Hum, you probably won't get this but…it's Dean. He's sick and…doctors say there's nothing they can do. Hum, but they don't know the things we know, right? So don't worry 'cause I'll do whatever it takes to get him better. Right, I just wanted you to know."

There are other voicemail messages, other people in need, other hunts.

"If you have a problem, call my son Dean. He can help."

Yeah right. Big-time suckage. Dean can help keep other people's families together, but his own is falling apart, and there's not a damned thing he can do about it. He puts on a helluva front in front of Sam. Kid already thinks Dean's shallow, macho, a cowboy, and Dean doesn't do anything to correct that impression. He's not in a sharing and caring mood, least of all with Sam. When he's alone Dean feels his shoulders shake, as his chest tightens and his eyes get wet and gritty around the edges. He wonders exactly when he became such a big damn girl. Nobody ever said life was fair, so he sucks it up, goes out and kills some evil sonsabitches, raises a whole lotta hell.

It makes him feel better.

He and Sam go where they're needed for the next year. They meet up with John in Chicago one night, and they all go their separate ways hours later, bloodied, scared, and pissed off as hell. Nothing says "Winchester family reunion" like nearly being torn apart by Meg's daevas.

In response Dean finds as many hunts as he can. He has to keep busy. Has to keep moving. Everything's slip-sliding away, and he can't stop it. He feels better when he's in motion. He doesn't give himself any time to think, and when he sleeps after a hunt his dreams are coal black and formless.

_Remember this, Dean._

The months drag on. More voicemail messages, more coordinates, more people to save. John tells his sons to stay away from him, to watch their backs, and not to trust anyone. Sam starts joking that John's Dean's imaginary friend, and Dean always turns to him and growls. That isn't freakin' funny, dude. Not At. All.

Then comes the day that Sam and Dean walk into Bobby Singer's place.

Dad's there. With Samuel Colt's special gun.

Dean sits there in that overstuffed easy chair of Bobby's, as John tells the story of the Colt, explains that it's the one thing that can kill the Demon, not just send it back to hell. Dean just sits there, and he listens, and God help him, all he can think about is the dreams he's been having lately, the ones that wake him up in the middle of the night and leave him lying there wide-eyed and breathing heavily in the dark. He scents blood and the ripe smell of decomp in the air, hears the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of spurs and the faraway whicker of horses.

_Remember..._

_Everything ends._

_Whether you want it to or not. _

_Everything ends._

_**000000**_

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N :** On Wikipedia KT Tunstall said of the song: " 'Black Horse and the Cherry Tree' is inspired by old blues, psycho hillbillies, and hazy memories. It tells the story of finding yourself lost on your path in life, and a choice has to be made. It's about gambling, fate, listening to your heart, and having the strength to fight the darkness that's always willing to carry you off."

Of course, this being Supernatural sometimes you _want_ the darkness to carry you off.

**Warning:** There's Hurt!Dean and major character deaths in the next two chapters. Don't say I didn't warn you. If you're not in the mood, or you can't handle it, reader, pass this one by. Yeah, I know I said one more chapter, but this story has taken on a life of its own, at least for three more chapters. I've decided to turn it into a 'verse (Black Horse 'verse). Might be a story arc here. We'll see.

Still here? Okay then.

**Soundtrack:** One of The Living 12" Special Club Mix – Tina Turner (Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome soundtrack)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own John, Dean, Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Gordon, or any of Eric Kripke's wondrous creations. If Dean belonged to me he'd never get hurt, there would be no angst, and I'd let the kid have all the pie he'd ever want.

**

* * *

**

**Four weeks later….**

Hey, Bobby.

I'll be gone by the time you read this. Don't try to find me, okay?

Uh…slipped some sleeping pills in your beer last night. You know that by now. Shit, can't believe I actually wrote that. Sorry. It was the only way I could think of to buy me some time to get to the road. I found that tracking amulet you slipped inside the lining of my jacket. Dad tried the same thing with me and Sam when we were kids. I think he got the idea from you. Great minds think alike, huh? Took me awhile to figure out how to bust through that 'stay put' spell you put around the house. That wasn't easy. You always did know your stuff.

I'm leaving my girl with you. I know you'll take good care of her.

I fucked up big-time, Bobby. I couldn't protect Sam and Dad, and now I gotta make this right. My whole life has been one fucked up mess, so maybe what I'm gonna do now will give it some meaning, you know?

I went southpaw when I wrote this. Wanted to say goodbye face to face, but I knew you'd never let me leave. I got a lot to thank you for. Thanks for taking me in after Wyoming. Thank Ellen for me, too. For a while there I acted like a total ass. I get it. I'm sorry. Never meant to be a burden to you or Ellen. Never meant for any of this to happen.

Take care of yourselves.

Dean

**_000000_**

Three hours and four truck rides later Dean finds himself in this Greyhound bus station just outside of Sioux Falls. "Ted Nugent" buys a bus ticket using his MasterCard. He reaches out for the ticket with his right instead of his left and instantly realizes his mistake.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispers to himself. The bandaged end of his stump sticks out of the right sleeve of his jacket, and the clerk's so damned bored she doesn't even notice. She's probably seen a lot weirder stuff out here, instead of some scruffy looking bozo in a brown leather jacket wearing sunglasses at night.

It sneaks up on him like that sometimes. His mind still has trouble dealing. A month ago he had two good hands. Now he's got only the one, his left. His right hand's fine grey ash floating on wind currents up in Wyoming.

He never really noticed his hands before. Dean's always been hands-on, very physical. This is a trick his mind's playing on him. He blinks, and he can see his missing hand, flex and move his fingers, and his silver washer ring feels smooth and warm against his skin. Sometimes Dean actually expects to be able to grip the doorknob or lift the bottle or plate.

It was bottles mostly for a while. Jack, John, and Josè were Dean's bestest buds there for a while, but it was all pretty fucking useless. Bobby locked his booze up; Dean picked the lock with a paper clip and proceeded to help himself. He wanted to make himself as dead as possible as fast as he could, but there wasn't enough booze in the world to make him forget how startled Sam looked in those last moments, and that defiant look on Dad's face as he shielded Sam with his own body.

And wonder of wonders, Bobby wanted to have a chick flick moment.

Bobby cornered Dean on the porch one bright morning. Dean tried to execute a few serious evasive maneuvers, but it wasn't one of his better days. His legs were rubbery and his head hurt. He sat back down on the porch swing with a thump and he knew this was one freakin' chick flick moment he couldn't out-run.

"You gotta talk about this, Dean. It'll eat you up inside if you don't."

"'m all right," Dean said dully.

Bobby's eyes flashed then, full of rage and regret and sadness, and for a moment, just a moment, Dean actually hoped that Bobby was going to start whaling on him.

Instead Bobby just shook his head, slowly, sadly. "Kid, you're breaking my heart. None of this is your fault. You hear me, Dean? None of it . "

Dean laughed, and Bobby flinched at the sound. It wasn't a happy noise, just bright and awful and bitter. "I got my family killed. They should've walked out of that graveyard, instead of me. I tried to take care of them my whole damn life, and I let them down when it mattered. I tried to follow them. I did. You pulled me back from the fire, and now I'm here all alone. You should have let me die up there, Bobby. You should have let me die."

Bobby looked stunned. Dean got up and walked off, a little shakily, but it was all good, it was enough. It would take Bobby time to re-group, time to come at him from another angle. Dean spent the rest of the day curled up on the back bench of the Impala, out in the yard, and it took an effort not to start bawling like a bitch.

Bobby had to call him inside for dinner.

Dean decided soon afterwards that drinking himself to death was slow and sloppy, a waste of time. Besides, he didn't like the looks that Bobby and Ellen gave him: sorrowful, full of pity. That was starting to piss him off. Keep your fucking pity. Don't need it. Don't deserve it.

Dean gave that silver knife of his some really serious consideration. He knew just where to cut, and how deep. He could go out in the yard and do it, quick and easy, so that Bobby and Ellen wouldn't have much of a mess to clean up afterwards, but then it dawned on him.

_If you're gonna kill yourself, dumbass, why not make it count? _

He considered his options. Zombie stuff was out. Pet Sematery didn't exactly end pretty. There was one gig in particular, though, that struck a chord with him, and right then and there Dean knew that was the one.

He stopped the silly useless bullshit of trying to drink himself under. He needed a clear head from then on. Bobby and Ellen kept watch like a pair of sharp-eyed hawks, and Dean knew that leaving wasn't gonna be easy. Bobby doesn't say much, just sits there pretending to read one of his dusty old books, his eyes grim, his face set underneath the bill of his baseball cap.

Nights were the worst. Dean woke up gasping, wide-eyed, with his heart fluttering against the bars of his ribcage like a panicked bird. His mouth filled with the metallic taste of fear and burning flesh mixed with sulfur.

Azazel's hearty laughter echoed off the carved tombstones all around, and no one else got the joke.

_**000000**_

The three horsemen sit their mounts quietly in the field. Only the black horse moves around restlessly, stamping and pawing at the ground. The sky above her darkens to reflect her own stormy mood.

"Samirah."

She ignores her name. She ignores them as she ranges back and forth. The air around her crackles with electricity that slides over her sleek black hide.

They've had enough.

The three move as one, place themselves directly in their path. The black horse backs away, wild-eyed, snorting steam. Right this moment, she hates them all, even though they're her brothers and sisters. They have their riders, their companions. She's lost hers.

"He's rejected you. Rejected us," the black rider says. That is the last thing she wants to hear. The black charges at him, teeth flashing. The rider's huge red stallion tosses his head, bares his teeth in response of the black's anger. They rear on their hind legs at the same time, paw at each other and then back away.

"Little one," the Hispanic rider looks sad. His big grey horse dances in place, agitated by all the movement. "You have to accept this."

The white horse is placid, calm. Always has been. She just stands there, ears twitching back and forth. It'll take more than this to get her excited.

"Samirah," the little red-haired girl murmurs as she strokes the white's neck. Lightning splits the sky and for a moment she's eternal, her young face lined with age, her eyes immeasurably ancient. Her red hair's streaked with silver and gold. "You have to move on."

The black turns her back on them and walks away, her head down, ears laid out to either side.

They call her name once again, and she ignores them again. She'd give anything to hear _him_ call her name, even in anger, but he wants no part of who he _was_. Wants no part of _her_. It's worse than when he had forgotten, when he was playing at being human, wasting his life being that hunter's cub. He knows now, and he _still_ rejected her.

Her ears perk up when she reaches the edge of the field.

The black turns restlessly in a circle, rumbling. She pricks her ears alertly. Her nostrils flare wide open as she casts about eagerly with her senses. She doesn't want to get her hopes up.

But she's not too proud to go after him.

He's out in the world now. Confused. Tired. He'd put up a wall before, pushed her away, but now, with the father and the brother gone…

Thunder rumbles overhead. The black raises her mane and tail like a banner as she turns to run.

_**00000**_

Dean manages to snag a window seat. He keeps his duffel on his lap.

Energy level's spiraling down, and the heaviness of his eyelids tells him that he's going to get some sleep now, whether he wants to or not. Sleep's something that Dean could well do without, but his body says otherwise. Dean slumps against the window. His head droops, and he blinks wearily at the darkened scenery as it slides past at 55 mph.

His eyes unfocus and the first thing he thinks of is Ellen.

The first time she comes at him with that first aid kit Dean growls at her. Ellen quirks an eyebrow at him. "Easy or hard, Winchester. Your choice. This is gonna get _done_, either way."

Dean just stares at her for a long moment. He nods, slowly, like the effort was nearly too much and it's costing him somehow, then he bows his head and stares at the floor. Ellen touches him slowly, with great care, like she's gentling a skittish feral dog. She changes Dean's bandages, quick and efficient as always, checks his stump for signs of infection.

Dean's never liked being touched, but he's able to settle himself long enough to sit at Bobby's large wooden table near the kitchen area. Ellen had a woman's touch, all right, and it makes Dean ache when he thinks of his Mom. He'll be damned if he's going to encourage Ellen with this new age, touchy feely crap, but he can't help it.

He doesn't even flinch as she smoothes ointment on the scars around his right eye. When she touches him he leans into her fingers, and when she pulls her hand away Dean feels cold, lost. The fine thin scars around his right eye radiate outward, like the tattoo of a sun. It looks tribal, gives Dean's already spectacular looks a kind of exotic beauty.

Ellen talks to him about nonsensical stuff, anecdotes about hunters who came into the Roadhouse. Her touch is soft and gentle, her tone is warm and caring, and Dean suspects this little daily ritual is her way of wanting him to re-connect with humanity.

Humanity. _Fuck it. That's a damn laugh._ Dean's heard the rumors, the talk. The first couple of times he hid out of sight and listened to Bobby and the other hunters who came by.

"_The Winchesters were at the Devil's Gate. Damn fools opened the damn thing. They're to blame for all of this. Look, Bobby, we're sorry about John and Sam, we really are, but they should have left this whole thing alone. Only bright spot in this whole mess is John's eldest boy killed Ol' Yeller. At least that kid turned out to be good for something…."_

Dean wanted to re-connect with humanity all right, but he didn't think he and Ellen and Bobby were on the same page.

Dean got his hopes up one night when Gordon Walker showed up, parked across the road from the salvage yard. Gordon just stared at Bobby's house without saying a damn word, his eyes hooded, his face unreadable, half hidden by shadows.

Ol' Gordie looked like judge, jury, and executioner. Dean walked out on the porch and just stood there. He didn't move.

It was a clear shot and he prayed that Gordon would take it.

Dean's luck with this ran about as true as it did with everything else these days. Gordon drove off after a few minutes. Dude had a lot of _cojones_ roaming around out in the open now, especially at night. More black eyes topside, all around, on the streets, everywhere. They hide in plain sight now, make the jump from one meatsuit to another. They smile cheerfully as they commit murder, and as always, the so-called "proper authorities" don't have a damn clue.

Dean slumps over against the window even further. The space behind his eyes buzzes with light and sound, voices and images.

"Kinda falling down on the J-O-B, aren't ya, kiddo?"

Azazel's smiling. That yellow-eyed bastard never stops fucking smiling, even in Dean's dreams.

* * *

On to chapter 4. (Told you this would have been one long chapter).


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Dean, John, Sam, or Bobby. There. I said it.

* * *

Nothing they have works, not even the Colt, and the bastard Demon knows it.

Dean stands too rigid, frozen in the moonlight, his right arm extended stiffly out in front of him. He's been struck mute. The Demon pulls his strings, controls his movements. He's a toy soldier puppet, a plaything, and Azazel laughs as Dean's spine jerks upward, stiff and controlled. Dean's fingers tighten painfully around the grip of the special Colt, and he knows it's Azazel's doing.

Dean can't let go. He doesn't want to. He just wants to be able to pull the trigger.

A few feet away John and Sam stand rooted in one spot. John's a step ahead of Sam, directly in front of him.

_Come on, look at me,_ Dean thinks at the yellow-eyed sonofabitch. _Look at me. You want me. Not them._

Azazel grins. "I got all of you, Deano. This place is near and dear to my heart, y'know? " Azazel places a hand over his heart and he laughs when all three hunters glare at him. "All those countermeasures Sam Colt put into place? I altered them to suit me. Those sigils you laid down? Mighta worked on me any other place, but not here. " Azazel sniffs disdainfully. "Colt's pathetic little pop gun? In a moment or so, that won't matter."

Bright yellow flame sparks in the grass at John and Sam's feet.

_No._

Dean can't even say the word.

"What was that? I can't hear you, sport. "

_Bastard. You son of a bitch ---_

The flame sweeps up to John and Sam's knees. Sam moans, low and desperate, through lips that are forced together, tight with pressure and pain.

John's eyes lock with Dean's.

_Dad --_

_Take the shot, Ace. Don't worry about us. I know you can do it, Dean. You're the only one who can. Take it, kiddo._

"_Oh_. I'm afraid," Azazel's voice drips with sarcasm. He stands directly in front of the barrel of the Colt and waves at Dean like a politician.

Nothing happens.

"Huh. Well in case you haven't noticed, John boy, your eldest son has screwed up yet again. You really think I'd let him shoot me with that gun?"

Flames flicker in the folds of John and Sam's clothing. It's eating away at them, slowly. Dean can smell their flesh burning, smoky and sweet smelling somehow.

_Oh God, no---_

The Colt vibrates beneath Dean's fingertips. Slowly at first, and then faster. The pale energy inside breaks through the cracks in the gunmetal. It stings and singes Dean's skin, blackens his fingertips.

It's going to blow.

"Little boys shouldn't play with Papa's big gun." Azazel nods sagely. "You could get hurt. But don't worry, boychick. You'll be in a world of hurt, but you won't be alone."

The flames brighten, sweep up and over John and Sam with an audible swoosh. The breath in their lungs is forced out of their mouths, and they both inhale hellfire. They're living candles, twin towers of man-shaped flame frozen in place.

Azazel never stops laughing.

Something breaks inside Dean just then. It's huge and it's small. It rages and it whimpers. All he can think of is this single word.

_No _

He screams it out.

_No_

It comes out as a choked whisper.

_No---_

He feels the metal of the Colt expand as the cracks grow wider.

Dean pulls the trigger.

_Please, oh please---_

He doesn't know who he's talking to. He'll beg, he'll plead. God? Someone. Anyone who's listening...

Dean pulls the trigger.

The casing of the Colt bulges outwards in all directions, and that's when he knows that it's too little, too late. The last bullet's wasted, caught up in the explosion inside the Colt.

His family's gone. And it's all his fault.

Dean's soul contracts and expands, terrible, howling with rage and grief. His vision blurs. He can practically see the bullet inside the barrel, feel the hot gases as they expand around it and behind it.

He pushes out with his mind, and the last bullet Samuel Colt ever forged responds.

It streaks out of the barrel, ahead of the explosion.

When the Colt blows apart in his hand, it's almost beautiful, shards of darkened, twisted metal fly through the air. Pale blue flame sears his skin as the force of the mini-blast blows apart the bones and muscles of his right hand, but Dean barely feels it. Azazel stays upright for a moment longer. He's backlit by the fire and Dean knows John and Sam are gone even now.

Something slams into the right side of Dean's head with enough force to rock his head back. He's blown backwards but even as he falls he sees the bullet strike Azazel in the head, right between the eyes. That peculiar pale glow flashes underneath the host's skin, and the bastard's eyes stare wide in shock and disbelief.

Dean lies there on his back, staring at the stars as his vision cartwheels into darkness.

Moments later Dean vaguely remembers Bobby helping him up sit up. The fire still burns, so he must not have been out for long. His right eyes throbs and he can't feel the fingers of his right hand.

He can't remember what happened to his right hand.

There's light and smoke and flame and Dad and Sam lie sprawled on the ground in front of him, and it's not fair, it's not right, Bobby's pulling him backwards and Dean doesn't want to go backwards, he wants to stay with them, go with them –

Dean growls deep in his throat as he struggles forward.

His seatmate on the bus, some short round guy in a baseball jacket, grumbles, "What the fuck do you think you're ---"

Whatever else he was going to say gets stuck in the dude's throat as Dean turns and stares at him. Baseball Jacket takes it all in: the way Dean moves, the hard set of his mouth, and the thin curving scars around Dean's right eye, visible even behind those dark sunglasses.

Baseball Jacket doesn't see the stump of Dean's right hand, but that's a moot point anyway.

Baseball Jacket gets up and sits somewhere else.

The adrenaline rush doesn't last long. Dean settles back against the window. It's too much to hope that he won't dream. He's dimly aware of all the people around him, hears sniffling and people talking, thin strains of music from ipods and portable CD players. He falls back away from them, sinks back into his own body. He doesn't know what dreams will come.

He can't stop it, and he can't control it, so Dean lets it come.

_**0000000**_

It's been too long since he's been in the sunlight. It feels good on his skin. Dean turns his face skyward and stares directly up at the sun.

The black snorts and whinnies as she runs the perimeter. The soldiers with their shields and spears don't bother her at all. She buckjumps, just for the pure joy of it. Her hooves beat out a lively rhythm as she surges over the ground.

The thousands of horsemen arranged in a circle around them aren't his kind. Dean knows this.

"Nobis est eligendi optio, cumque nihil impedit, quo minus id, quod maxime placeat –"

The priests and the holy men, prepare their potions, chant their prayers.

"….voluptates repudiandae sint et molestiae non recusandae. Itaque earum rerum hic tenetur…"

The soldiers bang their spears against their shields.

They're afraid of him.

_Afraid of us._

Sunlight winks off polished bronze armor and iron metal spears. The ceremonial banners all around are yellow, red and black. Dean recognizes some of the sigils. They're for protection and containment.

He tries not to laugh out loud.

The horses are just mortal, poor things. They shy away when the black approaches. They've been trained to tolerate loud noises, battlefield conditions, but the black horse is something they've never faced before, and she knows it.

Dean can hear her laughing, amused, so sure of herself.

She stops on a dime, turns around and runs over to him. She huffs, lowers her head and lips at the shoulders of Dean's clothing. He's dressed in black from head to toe. Like the rest of his clothing, even his leather boots are just as smooth and sleek as her own glossy hide. He smiles as he tries to pet her and she ducks away from his hand and runs off, never far away, in a circle around him. She takes another mock run at the horsemen, and backs off again, wild and joyous.

The people of this city-state plundered the surrounding countryside. They've done to others what they falsely assumed no one could ever do to them.

_Everything ends. Whether you want it to or not. _

_Everything ends. _

The high priests in the city don't think so. Days ago they told the king and queen: "We can stop this. We've cheated death before. If you allow us, we can do so again."

Dean smirks a little. That wasn't him before. There's _death_, and then there's _Death_. He's still new at this, still finding his way around. It would be harder if he was alone, but he has _her_, and she has _him_.

On one level he knows there's something not quite right. This is a dream, a memory from some past life that he's forgotten. He knows his name wasn't Dean in this life, but he can't remember exactly what it was. The black horse has a name, but he can't remember what it is at the moment.

He already knows how this is going to end, so none of this really concerns him.

Dean turns his face up towards the sun again. He closes his eyes.

He doesn't flinch, not even when they make the sacrifices. Six virgin women first, at various points in the circle of steel around him. Their screams are loud and piercing, and Dean still doesn't move.

It's nothing he hasn't heard before.

Their blood is added to the potions. Arrows are dipped into the brew. He smells consecrated iron, steel forged in holy water. All manner of herbs burned in the fires.

Dean lowers his head and opens his eyes. A glint of bright copper runs through the bright green color of his iris.

The black walks over to him, relaxed and easy. She stands with her neck over his shoulder and they lean into each other. He pats her neck roughly, once, twice.

The moment's over soon enough.

It's time. The priests have finished.

Dean swings up into the saddle. She steps sideways for a bit as he gathers the reins. She bows her neck and paws the ground.

The air darkens and hisses as thousands of blessed metal tipped arrows slice through the air, from all points of the circle. Iron and steel rain down on Dean and his black horse, so thick and heavy that horse and rider are blotted out. Hundreds of arrows thud into the sandy ground around them. The arrows come in waves, and after the fifth wave fire arrows are launched.

A thick cloud of dust rises into the air. The sun is nearly blotted out. What they see when the flames die down and the dust settles is enough to make the priests raise their voices to the heavens as they give thanks. They've slain Death.

The black horse has fallen forward onto her knees. Dean's slumped over her neck and shoulders, pinned to the saddle and the body of his horse by hundreds of arrows. They're a once living sculpture of flesh and leather, wood, iron and steel. The ground is carpeted with a thick layer of arrows in a tight circle around horse and rider.

The priests raise their voices even louder as they give thanks. They've celebrated too soon.

Dean and the black open their eyes at the same time. His are bright copper. Hers are reddish gold.

She gets to her feet in one smooth motion. Dean keeps his seat with perfect balance as she rears up, pawing at the sky. His eyes blaze bright copper. The air around them shimmers, faint, ghost-like.

The air around the two of them thickens, then flexes as the arrows push out of their bodies in one gigantic pulse of force that shakes the ground. The arrows stuck in the ground take flight again, straight up at first and then curving down into the ring of soldiers, priests and horsemen. Those who wear armor die just as quickly as those who are unprotected.

Dean slowly rides his mare forward. They're untouched, unmarked, as everyone else dies in a tidal wave of white hot metal and flame.

The city-state sits on the horizon. It's the same city-state that the army was trying to protect. They took their chances, for what little good it did them.

The black covers the ground in a leisurely walk. There's no hurry.

They have all the time in the world.

_**000000**_

Hours later Dean stands blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight. The bus lumbers away from the stop in a rumble of exhaust, and quite frankly, he's glad to be done with the damn thing. He hates being cooped up almost as much as he hates standing still.

He'll have to walk from here. Not a hell of a lot in this stretch of country. It's out in the middle of nowhere, fields, country roads, and farmland.

Dean shoulders the duffel and starts walking. No problem. No worries. It's a good day so far. His legs are strong and steady. He could walk for miles feeling like that.

Last time he was in these parts, Sam was _here_. Sam was _alive_.

And so was Dad. Alive, somewhere out there.

Dean figures that with any luck he should be there in about two hours or so. Plenty of time. He can go into Lloyd's Bar, sit, have a beer, and wait for nightfall. Wait for the show to start.

Or, the show might come to him. Either way, there's a crossroads nearby, and no doubt some demon bitch lurking in the vicinity, just waiting for an invitation.

_Well, we know a little about a lot of things, just enough to make us dangerous._

Suckers came from miles around to play Deal or No Deal at Lloyd's. Bottom line was you get your heart's desire, and the prize in the CrackerJack box, boys and girls, is eternal damnation and a one way ticket to hell.

Sounds like a plan.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**_ Yeah I know, I'm way late with this and other updates. I'm also late responding to all the glowing reviews you folks gave this story the last time. I'm sorry! I thought of a few excuses (like work, RL, the cat ate my story notes) but even_ I_ wasn't convinced, so I think I'll drop that line of defense. I'm home today (don't have to work---hooray!) and I will respond to your reviews. Today. Thanks again for all your support!

And Jenna? That umm, part you wanted to see? Next chapter.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I know I don't own Dean, John, Sam, Bobby, or Ellen. Ya happy now?

* * *

_**Chapter 5**_

Bobby's not used to riding shotgun. He's pretty damn pissed that Dean was even able to haul ass like that, and he's still a little lightheaded from those sleeping pills.

Bobby's had better days.

"Look at you, Grumpy." Ellen's enjoying this way too much. "Woke up all charming and stuff."

Bobby growls at her, low and soft.

"That's gratitude for you." She switches lanes, gets out from behind that rusty old dump truck and when she gets clear Ellen puts her lead foot down on the gas pedal and the Chevelle leaps forward. "I pick your drugged rump up off the dining room floor and this is the thanks I get?"

"This isn't your fight, woman," Bobby grumbles. "Shoulda left you back at the yard."

"Shoulda, but you didn't. This is a two man job."

"Wasn't before."

"It is now. And if I hadn't come by you were gonna ditch me, weren't you, Singer? Besides, it's gonna take two of us to talk some sense into Dean, and you know it." She glances down at the road map unfolded partway over Bobby's lap, then turns her attention back on the highway. That tracking stone on the map is the size of a dime, still securely stuck in place at a point half a state away. The surface of the stone pulses a bright bluish green that glows in the late afternoon sunlight. "You lo-jacked him, huh?"

"It's one of a set. Put the other one in the heel of his left work boot." Bobby's satisfied smirk is very nearly the equal of Dean's on his best day.

Ellen snorts, a low, amused burst of laughter, but she keeps her eyes on the road and doesn't crack wise about how she found him, all weak and groggy after he fell out of the easy chair Dean left him in.

Right then and there Bobby decides that there must be a God.

_Hey, Bobby._

_I'll be gone by the time you read this. Don't try to find me, okay?_

The last trick played is _always_ the best one. _Age and treachery trumps youth and skill, kid._

The day he brought Dean home from the hospital Bobby went around his place in a state of near panic, locking up the guns, knives, any and everything sharp-edged and lethal. He hadn't realized before how much stuff was just laying around loose. He almost didn't know where to begin.

Bobby waited until Dean lay curled up asleep on the spare bed in the back bedroom, and the noises the kid was making, deep in his throat, made Bobby even more determined to protect Dean from himself.

"N-no.. no-no-no-no-no-no…oh God... oh God...S-Sam? D-Dad? No…noooo…."

A few words in Latin to charge the map and the stones ---"aspernatur odit aut fugit, sed quia consequuntur magni" – and that was all it took.

"It tracks him in real time, huh?"

Bobby nods.

"Pretty color."

"Uh huh. That's Dean's life energy. Color's good. Better than black."

"Oh?" Ellen frowns, then realizes what Bobby means. "_Oh._"

Ellen's mind wanders back to the way Bobby always hovered around in the background whenever she came around. Old fool always played it as tough and macho as the next hunter out there, but seeing Dean broken like this just about tore Bobby's heart in two. Ellen knew that Bobby watched her and Dean just as much for himself as for the kid. The subtle ways Dean responded to Ellen's touch gave Bobby hope, and that was a damn precious thing these days.

She hated the defeated slump of Dean's shoulders, the dull look in his eyes. He was lost and alone inside his own skin, and Ellen figured out the only way to reach him was through touch.

_You're not alone. I'm here. _

_We're here._

That magic or energy or whatever the hell it was Samuel Colt used in the Colt had effectively cauterized Dean's stump, vaporizing flesh, muscle and bone when the gun blew up in Dean's hand. It was clean, almost surgical.

The end of Dean's stump was smooth, rounded, almost as if Dean had never been born with a right hand. It was the damndest thing Ellen had ever seen, and that wound raised some eyebrows in the emergency room for sure.

Well, that and Dean's mental condition.

He'd gone silent. Totally, terribly mute, the same way he had when Mary Winchester died. Ellen hadn't heard of it before, but Bobby had. He'd had a long talk with Pastor Jim about John and his boys, and Bobby wondered just how much the boy had seen of his mother that night. Probably too much. And now, having seen Sam and John incinerated in front of his own eyes, it was just too much.

Even so, Bobby figured that mute stage of Dean's wouldn't last long.

Bobby never would admit it, but he was kind of grateful the day he found Dean drunk, sprawled on the floor with Josè gripped tight in his left hand and a glazed look on his face.

Better dead drunk than just plain dead.

_I fucked up big-time, Bobby. I couldn't protect Sam and Dad, and now I gotta make this right. _

If suicide was still on Dean's mind, he would have headed for Wyoming, to end it all as close as he could get next to John and Sam, never mind that they're fine grey ash scattered to the four winds by now.

Dean's headed _away_ from Wyoming, in the opposite direction.

…_so maybe what I'm gonna do now will give it some meaning, you know?_

"What are you playing at, Dean?" Bobby whispered to himself when he found the note. "What's goin' on inside that head of yours?"

There's not a lot of traffic on this stretch of the highway, and the radar detector's quiet. Tracking stone continues its agonizingly slow movement. So far, so good.

Ellen says a silent prayer as she gives the Chevelle a little more gas. You never know who might be listening, and in this line of work sometimes you need all the help you can get.

_**000000**_

"You're not real," Dean whispers raggedly to himself. "None of this shit is real."

He takes a stumbling step forward, shifts his duffel on his back and curses himself for stopping in the first place.

They're all around him now, in a circle. He can see straight through them, and the clothes they wear looks like costumes from some documentary on the History Channel. They're his neighbors and friends from the town. He grew up with them, hunted with them, plowed the fields and gathered crops with them.

"Abomination," this old man spits at him. "Unnatural thing." He lets fly with that good-sized rock in his hand, but the old bastard has piss-poor aim. The stone hits the dirt a few feet away from Dean, but it's solid enough to kick up dust from the ground.

Dean suddenly knows this place, knows that his old life as a human ended here.

He hunches his shoulders up as he turns his face up to the sun. The sunlight doesn't warm his skin. He's chilled to the bone, weak, shaky. He staggers as he shifts his duffel, clutches at his jacket collar with his remaining good left hand.

_None of this is real, you stupid bastard,_ he tells himself. _Keep moving. Don't stop._

Several of the shadow people let fly with those rocks of theirs. The first stone hits Dean in the chest, right on the collarbone. He knows it's not real, but his body remembers, just as his spirit does, and he reacts to the memory. It knocks the breath out of him, and Dean staggers as several other good-sized stones strike him about the neck and shoulders.

He can't lose it like this. He can't.

It's not a vision. Not part of some mind fuck.

It's a…

_….say it, you stubborn bastard…_

…a memory.

He glances down at his chest and for a moment he sees the afterimage of the jagged end of his collarbone sticking up through bruised and bloody skin.

_Don't look. Don't stop. _

He takes another halting step, and the next stone passes right through him, a slight stirring of air against his skin.

The circle of people around him shimmers and fades, and he's alone again, stumbling down this dusty side road. Lloyd's Bar is still a mile up ahead, and he's so close.

Not that he wants to admit it, but he's scared. Scared that he'll be overtaken by the memories before he can make the deal. Scared he'll let John and Sam down. _Again._

He's dreaming with his eyes open this time. Never thought he'd get to the point where he actually envied those visions Sam used to have. Like everything else from that friggin' yellow-eyed sonofabitch, Sam's visions hurt like hell. The pain was the whole point. This new thing, though, it slips seamlessly around Dean, covers him like a blanket. Dean breathes it in, helplessly, and he realizes he's sinking deeper into it.

He can't feel his legs anymore. He can't feel anything but the memory all around him.

_**0000000**_

Dean rides with his head down, casual, relaxed, and he senses the boy trailing behind them easily. This one dogs him like a noisome shadow, either too bold or too stupid to do it quietly. This is the first unusual thing that's piqued his interest in quite awhile.

Most people run from him and the black horse. Nobody in their right mind would follow them around like this.

Dean's curious.

The only spot of color is his face, shrouded in deep shadow by the full leather hood of his long coat. Otherwise the clothing and gloves he wears is just as black as his horse, from head to toe, and both of them are untouched by dust or grime. He and the black are glorious in their perfection, too perfect, otherworldly. Even a blind person could see that.

His business here is done. This country simply got too big, collapsed under its own weight. It's all part of the Balance, and Dean understands that. He gets it. He joined up with the other Horsemen days ago, and now they've separated again. It's not the last great death, just a small one in the overall scheme of things.

The black horse shakes her head. She's agitated. She lowers her head, tries to fool Dean into dropping the reins. She'd like nothing better than to turn around and confront their stalker head on. She doesn't like being shadowed. By a human, no less. She's seen a lot of them before, dead and alive, but she's never been followed like this before, and it's irritating the hell out of her. Dean smiles slightly as she flattens her ears back against her head.

_Idiot,_ she grumbles.

Her muscles twitch as he strokes her neck. _Take it easy. It's just a child._

_I'm not talking about that bag of bones. I'm talking about you._

He's used to her many moods. Dean's grin gets a little wider._ Yeah?_

The black pricks her ears as she picks her feet up. She wants to run, but Dean reins her in. She bares her teeth and angrily tosses her head as she dances in place.

_What are you doing? I want to run._

_Don't want to get too far ahead. I want to know why._

_Why what? _She blows steam from her nostrils, and sparks from her hooves blackens and burns the sparse grass beneath her feet.

_Why he's following us._

_Why? Crazy, that's why._

It's only a child, after all. Ragged, dirty and hungry.

Something slices through the air, right at Dean's head, and the black shrieks angrily as she wheels around. Dean stays balanced in the saddle and without much thought catches the stone in his raised right hand.

It's a pretty good sized rock. Decent weight. Just right for bashing someone's head in.

That's a subject Dean knows a lot about.

_Not again._ _Never again._ He frowns as he stares at the stone, and he makes a show of crumbling the rock into dust as casually as he would a piece of paper.

The black boy just stands there, tall and skinny, dark brown skinned. The clothes he wears are little more than rags hanging off his bruised body. His feet are cut and bleeding from the sharp rocks all around, but his furious bright brown eyes never waver, even at the sight of the black horse, barely restrained, angry. Dean pulls her up as she tries to lunge at the boy. The boy glares at Dean. Dean throws his hood back, and his green eyes flash copper as he locks them on the boy.

The boy doesn't flinch.

"I know what you are. You took my family."

Dean nods. "I did."

"You took all of them. Everyone I ever loved. Everyone but me."

"If you're still here, then it wasn't your time."

"Take me, too. You have to take me."

Dean shakes his head. "It doesn't work that way, boy."

Another stone, another throw, and Dean catches and disposes of this one as effortlessly as he did the first.

"You have to take me, too. You have to."

Dean shakes his head, slowly. _No._ There's a plan to all of this. Set rules. It only seems random and chaotic to those on the outside looking in. Only those whose time is up will be taken. The rest will have to endure.

The black's ears twitch. _Another one._ Her thought voice is wild, rough. _Dead…_

The bushes behind the boy parts, and another human steps out into the open.

"Ekende? Is that you?" Dean can see the resemblance right away. Older man. Tall and slender, like the boy. There's no breath, no body heat to this one. The man has been dead for some time, but the boy doesn't see it. He can't.

The boy stares. "P-Papa?"

"It's me, son. Come here."

Ekende stumbles forward, surprised and grateful. Dean opens his mouth to call out a warning, anything, but it's too late, and why would the boy believe anything _he_ had to say anyway?

"Azazel," Dean whispers, and the Demon nods.

Inhumanly strong hands close around the boy's neck and shoulders, and his eyes widen. He realizes his mistake too late. He jerks his head up, stares at his father's face. His father's stolen face grins at him, wide and cheerful, and those liquid brown eyes spark murky yellow.

"I got you, boy. _I got you._" Those dead hands tighten around the boy even tighter.

Azazel grins at Dean and the black horse.

"This one is mine. I appreciate you slowing the little bastard down so I could catch up to him. Tasty little first-born morsel, isn't he? I've got big plans for him, big plans."

Azazel leans down and tenderly kisses the shell of the boy's left ear. Ekende flinches at the touch of his father's dead lips, and Azazel laughs merrily. "None of this concerns you, Horseman. Don't wanna seem rude or anything, but you've done your job. Now be off with you."

Dean and the black don't move, and the dead father frowns.

Dean stares at the boy, and the boy stares right back at him.

_I spared you,_ Dean thinks to himself.

What Azazel does to those vessels and special children of his is unspeakable.

_I spared you…for this?_

The boy's gaze is steady. He doesn't waver.

_Please._

Dean responds. Ekende's skin turns grey, withered, as his life and breath leave his body.

"No! You can't do this---" the Demon howls. He tightens his grip on the boy, but it doesn't do any good. Ekende's flesh turns to dust, slips through Azazel's fingers and is scattered on the wind.

For a moment, just a moment, it looks like Azazel wants to charge forward. Dean puts his right hand up, waves him in.

_Come on then, you yellow eyed son of a bitch._

The Demon doesn't move. He's vindictive, but he's not stupid. Another time, then.

The black huffs. She wheels around smartly as Dean nudges her with her heels. She wants to run, but she walks instead, slow, dignified. She'll be damned if she'll run from some low-life demon bastard.

Dean doesn't turn around. He doesn't have to. He hears the hollow intake of breath as Ekende's dead father throws his head back and his mouth stretches impossibly wide. Azazel comes boiling out in a thick ink black coil of smoke that curves into the bright afternoon sky in the opposite direction, away from Dean and the black horse.

_Haven't heard the last of this,_ the black thinks softly. She doesn't sound _too_ concerned.

_I know._

The thing that Dean remembers most is the smile on the boy's face, wide and grateful, and the words that were mouthed just before that dark brown flesh crumbled away into dust.

_Thank you._

_**000000**_

Ellen slows down just before they pass that speed trap just outside of New Haverbrook. It's the third speed trap, third time that's happened, and Bobby doesn't know how in the hell she does it. "How we doin', Bobby?"

"Hasn't moved. Should catch up with him by nightfall."

"Any chance that we could lose him on one of those backroads?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Not unless he takes his boots off."

"Hope not," Ellen says breezily. Dean might be damaged, but he's not stupid. She presses down on the gas again and the Chevelle roars down the open road.

_**000000 **_

Less than half a state away Dean Winchester stands unblinking in the middle of a back road a mile away from Lloyd's Bar. He doesn't flinch and he doesn't move as the black horse walks right up to him.

She pushes her nose gently against the side of his face, and her sleek black fur is a soft velvet touch on his cool, clammy skin. Dean doesn't even blink.

_It's all right, _she says softly._ I'm here. _

_**000000**_

_**TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Been wondering what John and Sam have been up to? Wonder no longer.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Dean, John, or Sam. There now, I've said it. And I'm not very happy about it, either.

* * *

**_Chapter 6_**

"Hey, Johnny," the wind demon whispers softly. "Can you and Sammy come out to play?" It hisses merrily as it kicks up a small cloud of leaves and loose dirt in the afternoon sunlight.

John looks bored as he walks along the path. Maybe that boogeyman act scared the hell out of lost hikers and sundry forest critters but it'll take a lot more than a small dust devil to raise even a pimple on John Winchester's ass.

It paces him for about ten feet or so, whirling and growling. John still doesn't react. After a moment or so the elemental veers off into the woods, grumbling darkly to itself. John smirks. He knows the damn thing will be back the same time tomorrow afternoon. Same time, same stupid question. That's one reason why he walks out here every day, just to piss the stupid thing off.

Some of the bastards that got out when the Gate opened come by occasionally. Hag-ridden deer, black eyed, grinning, and totally unnatural. A red-eyed black bear came around for a few days, snorting and grunting until it got bored and left. He and Sam can't get _out_, but the fugs can't get_ in_, either, and there must be a reason for _that_.

Five hundred ninety seven steps from the center of the graveyard to that invisible boundary. The first time he and Sam walked right into it, bumped their heads pretty damn hard. It's a faint, barely noticeable silver shimmer in the air, reaching all the way up into the sky, curving around through the woods in a perfect circle.

Got curious one time. Wanted to see how far down the barrier went, so John spent half the day digging around the base with his bare hands and a thick tree branch. Stopped after the first five feet.

Whoever set this up was one thorough sonofabitch.

John's liking this arrangement less and less, but he knows a trick or two, tucked away inside that hard head of his. There's always the chance that things could go even further south (_hope for the best, prepare your ass for the worst_) so he walks the perimeter every day like this. He observes_ everything_: what to use for cover, maps out what escape routes he and Sam could use, which parts of the graveyard could be easily defended against all comers.

If this was the way his life was gonna end, well, he had no problem with that. But his game face always slips a little when he's alone, whenever he's away from Sam.

_I let you down, kiddo. Would've given anything to make this trip alone._

Dying's a distant memory. It's hectic and disjointed and mercifully brief. He was a human candle for the briefest moment, consumed in bright yellow hellfire, and the last thing John remembers before things went pitch black is that look of utter shock and disbelief on Dean's face.

When John and Sam woke up they were still in the graveyard. _Alone._

It was damned hard in the beginning. The first week they quietly went about the business of running a standard search pattern, because if Dean was able _he_ would have found _them _first. John's imagination, which was usually pretty solid and dependable (some would say _nonexistent_) ran freakin' wild. He imagined finding Dean broken and mangled, behind headstones or fallen logs, and each time Dean died just as John found him, eyes glazed over, staring at something faraway that only he could see, gasping and choking on his own blood.

Once John thought he saw Dean standing out in the clearing early one morning, smirking. Dean's normally green eyes burned dark gold.

"Hello, Papa," Azazel whispered gleefully inside John's head. "How d'ya like your boy _now_? He's a perfect fit for me, John boy. A perfect fit."

John blinked, and Dean was gone.

It was his imagination, all of it, powered by worry and regret and sadness. That was when John decided to get a damn grip. If he did Sam would follow his example. They were both doing a fine job torturing themselves, didn't need help from any sonofabitch demon to do _that_.

They searched for Dean during the day. Later that night, for the first time in a while, Sam smiled a little.

"He's not here, Dad." The look on Sam's face was peaceful, almost serene in the silver moonlight. "Dean's still alive." The knowledge of that settled around them like a warm, comfortable blanket. They both knew it somehow. Knew it in their souls, right down to the core.

All John could do was nod. He didn't trust himself to speak. He leaned forward and pulled out a fistful of that sparse tough grass. No particular reason. Just felt like doing something with his hands somehow, anything to distract himself from that suddenly hard lump in his throat. The corners of his eyes suddenly felt wet and slick.

Dean would have rolled his eyes. _You ladies havin' a chick flick moment? It's okay, princess. I got enough cojones for all three of us. _

Afterwards John and Sam found their own daily routines pretty quickly. John walked and Sam read John's journal. Sam pours though the thing, page after page, day after day, like he's overlooked something and he's desperate to find it.

The journal was the only personal item to have made the trip; John's pistol is gone, as is Sam's Beretta. Between the two of them they had a flask of holy water, four silver knives, two pistols, three clips with special loads and two clips of regular ammo, along with assorted protection charms and amulets. All gone now.

Dean had the special Colt.

Funny thing is, for dead men, they both feel pretty damn good physically. John could swear that his heart still beats. He breathes in and out, but he doesn't put much stock in that. Those last few minutes, hazy as they were, pretty much convinced both of them that what they are is _dead_. No question. They've seen spirits who were confused, who didn't know they'd died. Winchesters might be hard-headed SOBs, but they don't have the luxury of being_ that_ dense. It's one of the perks of the family business.

John follows the curve of the barrier through the woods. It'll take him back around to the graveyard. Sam's probably still sitting right where John saw him last, in front of the Gate.

A beer would go pretty good right about now. Scratch _that_. _A shot of Jack_. Just the taste, the feel of it going down his throat, igniting that warm glow in his belly, that would be something, a welcome change, just because he _wants_ it, damn it. Of course, he's also mindful that people in hell want ice water, too.

Jury's still out on _this_ place.

It's comfortable inside. Not too cold, or too hot. The air smells fresh and clean; there's a slight breeze coming from somewhere, just enough to move the air around, keep it from getting stale. The days are sunny and the nights are filled with moonlight and stars. It's like being inside a deluxe snow globe, without the snow, of course. The sun rises and sets, and John keeps track by scratching marks into one of the tombstones with a sharp-edged rock he found.

Forty two marks. Forty two days. Six weeks. Time passes differently here. Doesn't seem that long ago that they woke up on the ground, blinking and confused at first. That patch of scorched earth where they died freaked Sam and John out in the beginning.

It doesn't anymore.

John scoops up a handful of pebbles, steps back and throws them at the barrier. He's done this countless times, and the result is always the same: nothing ever gets through, from either side. He's tried this at various points around the perimeter. No variations. Not for six damn weeks.

Won't stop him from trying, though. All he needs is just one chance. Just one.

The hair at the back of John's head stands straight up and out, painfully. It's too little, too late, and John's body gets the news before his mind does.

Out of the corner of his eye John glimpses a shadow, what looks like a gigantic black wingtip furling to its full length. Broad fingers grip his neck tightly from behind, and every muscle in his body goes suddenly, completely limp. John wants to turn around and look this bastard in the eyes, but he can't.

The world around him fades into a soft white haze.

_**000000**_

"S-Sammy…"

The voice is rough and desperate, and oh so familiar.

"…pl-please…they dragged me in…"

Sam doesn't even flinch like he used to. This trick has gotten _old_.

"…can't get out…"

It's _not _Dean.

"….help me…."

Sam _knows_ it's not.

As usual, the demon drops the act pretty quickly when it sees it can't get a rise out of Sam, like it did in the beginning. It shrieks and scratches its claws against the hellside of the Devil's Gate, promises Sam that if it ever gets out it will skin him alive, inch by inch.

Sam rolls his eyes. _Boring._

All that cursing and ranting becomes background noise as Sam turns his attention to the journal. He's trying to narrow down a list of the usual suspects, the ones responsible for keeping them in the graveyard.

He and Dean hunted a trickster at Crawford Hall once. Freaky stuff; alligators in the sewer, alien abduction. It was nine kinds of crazy. Dean staked the trickster, killed him apparently, but that might have been just one more trick. A trickster could generate enough power to maintain that barrier around the graveyard, create living beings and objects out of thin air, but here again, what's the point? Tricksters love chaos and mischief. Inside the graveyard's been calm and peaceful so far. It's almost boring.

Sam mentally crosses the trickster off the list.

Witches? Maybe. No hex bags, though. No dead rabbits. No pain, blood or suffering.

Another one crossed out.

This might be the work of some of the things his family has hunted. Payback for all those years of saving people, hunting things. Sam doesn't doubt_ that_. This isn't heaven, but for some reason he doesn't think it's hell, either.

Reapers. Huh. Possible. _Very possible._ Sam sits there staring at the drawing Dad made in the journal. Dean described the one he saw in Roy LeGrange's tent as a wrinkled old dude, wearing a suit, not "that old black robe thing." According to the journal they can change their appearance, bend time. They're associated with the dead. Which doesn't answer another question: If he and John are supposed to cross over, why's it taking so long?

A chill claws its way up his spine, and Sam freezes. His skin prickles, almost to the point of being painful. It's the first unpleasant sensation he's had in this place.

"Well now, look at you," this deep voice says smugly.

Sam slips his game face on smoothly as he raises his head and looks at the man. He can feel otherworldliness coming off this one in waves, despite the fact that the dude looks normal. Grey suit, white shirt. No tie. Tall, bald and black, and that smirk on his face isn't anything like the one Dean would wear. Dean can leer, have a mischievous glint in his eyes, but there's no malice, no hint of viciousness.

There's all that and more in this man's bright brown eyes.

Sam closes the journal, puts it aside. His hands don't shake, not yet. He can feel the tremors in his muscles, just underneath his skin. Somehow he knows that this bastard has already met John out in the woods.

"Samuel Winchester," the black man says, and Sam doesn't even like the sound of his own name coming out of that mouth.

"What did you do with my Dad?"

"Huh. Such a smart little mud monkey," the man sneers. "Don't worry about him. Worry about yourself."

"Is that a fact?" Sam gets to his feet. His body starts shaking, from head to toe, and he can't stop it. The black dude smiles, hard edged and arrogant. Sam senses power in the air all around the man, irresistible, unearthly power. The air glows pale white, and those shadows at his back look like wings. Gigantic black wings.

Sam knows he's screwed.

For some reason Sam flashes back to a Christmas church service he and Jess attended once. The choir sung beautifully, a heavenly sound, but the lyrics made him feel uneasy.

"…..fall on your knees, oh hear the angels calling…."

"That's right," the black man whispers. He's right in front of Sam now. They're nose to nose somehow and Sam didn't even blink.

He doesn't understand how it all could have happened so damn fast. Broad fingers press firmly into his forehead, and all five senses wink out, one after another, as Sam slides sideways into blank whiteness.

**00000**

**TBC  
**


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: **_We've been on hiatus. Looks shifty-eyed, yeah, that's it. I apologize to _everyone _for the delay in updating this story, in particular to Phoebe, Merisha and Master Li. I have no excuse. Sorry about the shifting verb tense. I struggled with it, and my muse won.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own the boys. They belong to Eric Kripke. This is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 7**_

He's not right in the head, and he knows it. The space inside that hard knock skull of his roars and echoes as the past collides with the present. Dean stands frozen, every muscle in his body locked up tight and solid as the black horse walks up to him.

He sees the way the sunlight strikes that black coat of hers, spears of sunlight highlighting those powerful muscles one moment. Her coat flares black as the crack of doom the next, swallowing up all light around her.

He's hunted things like her all his life.

"You all right, Dean?" Dad rumbled softly.

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay."

"Damn right you are." John's broad hand comes down on Dean's shoulder. "Good job, son."

Dean can almost feel the weight, but John's hand fades away to nothing, passes through Dean as if he were the ghost. John and everything else around him fades away into bright sunlight.

He's dreamed about her in that other life.

She was shifting black sand shaped by the wind, and when she was finally born the black foal struggled upright on four dark, spindly legs as her mother, glistening pale under the moonlight, stood guard over her.

Dean snaps back to himself, standing on that dusty back road. Sunlight's strong this time of day, but he can't even blink. Dean doesn't know why he's like this, why his muscles won't work.

"_I'm not gonna live this life forever. Dean, when this is all over, you're gonna have to let me go my own way." _

_It's time…_

_You left me,_ the black horse told him before. _You left us. I didn't mean to hurt you._

Second time he ditched her. Not likely that she's gonna let him go this time. This time she's going to hurt him and mean it, every bruise, every broken bone.

Her motion is sure, almost dainty, not a step out of place, and where ever she steps she leaves a hoof print burned into the asphalt. The air around her is charged with specks of gold and silver energy, even in the bright sunlight.

_I had one job,_ Dean thinks wearily as she stops in front of him. _Just one. Take care of my family. That's all. And I couldn't even do that right._

He's got no excuse, no excuse at all. Bobby tried talking to him about forgiving himself. So did Ellen, but there's no damn excuse. He's been fooling himself ever since he left Bobby's place. He refused to put a name to the faces in that other life, and the past still caught up to him. He can't remember all that, he won't, because if he does, he'll lose John and Sam forever.

Lloyd's Bar and the crossroads is a half a mile ahead, and it might as well be on the far side of the moon. Bitch demon probably wouldn't even have shown up, much less made the deal to bring John and Sam back, even if Dean had been able to make it there. She was pretty damn pissed at him last time for forcing her to break Evan Hudson's deal.

He's confused. He remembers how heavy and somehow awkward his knife felt in his right hand.

His _missing_ right hand. He can still feel it, even though it's gone, blown to bone dust and shredded flesh over a month ago. He can wriggle his fingers.

He aches to touch her. Wants to feel that sleek black coat underneath his fingertips. If he could move, he knows exactly what he'd do. Swing onto her back, grasp that long thick mane in his fingers. He'd nudge her sides with his heels, turn her around, away from Lloyd's Bar and the crossroads up ahead.

Everyone else leaves. Why can't he?

He'd jump the fence and ride off, whooping joyously, away from that hunter's life, away from everything else.

She cocks her head to one side, ears pricked, and that fierce glow in those reddish gold eyes softens, just a little. It's like she's listening to all the noise and commotion inside his head. She softly, gently, nuzzles the side of Dean's face. Those fine thin scars around his right eye are not quite hidden by those dark sunglasses. She lowers her head, stares at the stump of his right hand. He had a strong yet gentle touch.

Gone now.

The black pities him, and that's sure in the hell _not_ what Dean wants.

_Kill me. Come on, you bitch, kill me!_

The black snorts and shakes her head. No.

John's voice echoes inside Dean's head, and the black horse pins her ears back.

"_I want to stop losing people we love. I want you to go to school, Sam. I want…I want Dean to have a home. I want Mary alive. I just…I just want this to be over."_

_Not sorry he's dead, _the black horse rumbles angrily. Clouds on the horizon darken immediately. _Don't listen to that. _

_You were mine long before you were their Dean. We both got many names, but you remember our First. I know you do. _Lightning splits the sky in a jagged stroke of silver, and the distant toll of thunder shakes the ground. _We belong together. Always. _

She pushes her nose gently against the side of Dean's face, and her sleek black fur is a soft velvet touch on his cool, clammy skin.

Dean doesn't even blink.

_You dreamed about me, and I saw you every time I closed my eyes. __It's all right, _she says softly._ I'm here. _

He hears it then. Kids' voices, high and joyful in the warm air…

_**TIME…**_

Friggin' nursery rhyme…

He's heard this before, some place else, maybe from one of the apartment buildings, kids playing in the yards next to one of those rented houses he and Dad and Sam stayed in…

Kids singing, playing…

Dean blinks. He doesn't remember _this_…

_**TIME…**_

Kids with happy, dirty faces, wearing loose drab clothes, dingy white and brown. Grey stone buildings, low to the ground, places he's never seen before, only on the History Channel, in school books, or on the 'net. Someplace else._ Somewhen_ else.

_**TIME TO RISE…**_

Dean struggles with the past, and loses.

Dean raises his right arm up. He knows he's only got a stump, knows his fingers are gone, but he can feel sleek black fur, feel her muscles shiver and tremble underneath his missing fingertips.

_I…I knew the demon from before…they're all dead because of me…everyone I ever loved…_

_He tried to have us killed, remember? _the black horse rumbles softly inside Dean's head. _I lived because of you. Then you left me. _

_**TIME TO FALL….**_

She was dying.

Her ebony coat was splattered with large white blotches. She lay on her side, wheezing, kicking out weakly as the poison from the blade burned through her veins and dulled her eyes. There was blood everywhere, and not all of it was his.

"You're not gonna leave me." His own skin glowed with fever, but he only had eyes for her. "You hear me? You're not dying on me. You're not…."

She rolled one eye towards him, red-gold flaring up weakly, one last time, as she whispered his name.

"Gaelen…"

Dean's left hand shakes as he reaches up and takes his sunglasses off. He turns his face into the side of her neck. All Dean sees is black. It's like coming home as he speaks the black horse's name for the first time in this life.

A single tear rolls out of Dean's right eye.

"Samirah," Dean whispers softly.

**TIME TO REMEMBER IT ALL.**

* * *

He was Gaelen back in that old life. _Gaelen._ It comes back to him now, all free and easy. No pain, no pressure. Dean sways there on the road as his muscles unlock. Samirah moves in closer, stands close to him, holds him up. She's patient. Waiting for him to catch up with her.

* * *

The others have been at this longer than he has. Galen remembers that much. He doesn't know what happened to the last Horseman before him, just that she left one day. Death mounted up, rode away on her sleek palomino stallion and never looked back.

Maybe she was tired of the same old thing. Maybe she had other business elsewhere that was more to her liking. None of that mattered.

It was his time then.

Gaelen's known that for a couple of weeks now. He's dreamed it.

He doesn't mind the dreams. Never has. He's had them since he was a kid, remembers more detail about his dreams than about his own family. He can't even remember the color of his mother's hair. Or the shape of his father's face. That doesn't bother him. Never did.

He does remember the horses in his dreams. The colors, the way they moved. Dappled grey, red roan, palomino. Chestnut mares, white stallions and tri-colored foals with laughing eyes. Muscular, lean black bodies splattered with pink and white color. He'd watch them buck and run, and he always woke up smiling from the dreams in which some of them actually let him ride them bare back.

All except Samirah.

They were born at the same exact time, bonded to each other, and he didn't know why. Didn't ask why. He saw her in his dreams, then and only then, watched her grow from a skittish little foal with long spider legs to a terrifying force of nature. The ground shook when she ran full out, her neck stretched out, ears prickled. When she extended herself lightning struck the earth.

_You're my rider, Gaelen. Only you. But not now. And not here._

He left home as soon as he was big enough. His family wasn't that sorry to see him go. The grandparents, especially, were afraid of him. They called him unnatural, a dybbuk, a daemon, for the way he got along with animals. Especially horses.

There was too much whispering going on in that house.

"Look at him. Look at his eyes, so bright and green."

His grandparents and parents would stop talking as soon as he entered the room.

"His eye color changes sometime. That's not right. Not natural…"

The day he walked in on his mother as she prepared a protective sachet filled with angelica root, Gaelen knew it was time to go.

He could hear his father sharpening his ax in the barn.

Gaelen walked away, on foot, even though some of his family's horses tried to follow him. He told them to go back home, and they finally did.

Gaelen wandered from place to place. Never stayed anywhere for too long. There was always another village or town just past the horizon. He knew who he was looking for, and after a while it occurred to him that the best way would be just to stay put for awhile and let her find him.

That wasn't quite the way it worked.

_Famine_ was the first to show up.

_Rika, _Gaelen thinks to himself when he sees her._ Her name is Rika._

No one else appeared to notice how her appearance shifted back and forth. From a young girl of about eight, to a tall slender young woman, and back again. She has long wavy red hair and freckles. It's her eyes, deep and ageless, that gives it away, but no one else cares to look that close. She sits her big white mare up on the hill as Gaelen walks to the stable. Her huge white mare is named _Actaeon._ She stands there, calm and placid. She's maybe a little too even tempered to be in this line of work, but she belongs to Rika. Actaeon doesn't mind.

Rika smiles warmly when she sees Gaelen. Something in his own eyes sparks copper as he smiles back at her.

_It'll be fine, Gaelen. It will, _she whispers inside his head. Gaelen nods a little, and when he blinks again she's gone already.

_Pestilence_ brings his horse in a day later.

He's _Chale_. The name comes easily to Gaelen even though the man doesn't say two words. His horse is big, dappled grey, solidly built, just like his rider.

Gaelen carefully picks a few pebbles out of the animal's shoes. _Ismael_ stands there patiently, nibbling at the shirt on Gaelen's back.

Chale smiles a little, flips Gaelen a coin as payment when he's done. _Later, brother._

_War_ passes Gaelen on the road into town. He sits his red stallion proudly, wears those simple clothes of his like royalty. His name is _Tiesen_. His mount is _Ajani_.

Unlike the others, Tiesen just nods and then rides off without saying a word.

On the last day of that old life Gaelen just laid there in bed, blinking slowly in the strong sunlight. He'd slept a little longer than he usually did. On a normal day he would have been up at the crack of dawn, tending to the horses. If a mare was expecting he'd bed down in the stall with her. Not now. Everything in his old life steps aside to make way for the new.

He had a way with horses, could tame even the wildest beast with a look and a gentle touch. Friesan, Trakehner, Arabians, Spanish Barbs, the breed didn't matter. One look into those green eyes of his, and they settled down, even the ones who'd been beaten and tormented by humans. He'd made some enemies, gotten into some fights with idiots who mistreated their animals and then dropped off them off at the stable, expecting him to repair the damage they'd inflicted.

He was useful, so the town elders left him alone for the most part, let him tame and gentle all manner of horses. Warmbloods, draft horses, partbreds, hot-blooded thoroughbreds, it was all the same to Gaelen. It was good for business, until the day the townspeople decided they had no more use for him.

Today's the day.

He can hear the men in the hallway outside his room. They're nervous, excited. Here's a chance to take out all their frustration on someone else. Gaelen doesn't even react as they smash the door down, and they're on him in the next second. He keeps his face carefully blank as they splash him with holy water and tie his hands behind his back. Then he's dragged through the streets to the field just outside of town, the Judgement of the Stones, the field where criminals and witches are stoned to death.

They throw him down on his knees in front of the robed magistrate. The man reads the charges. "You have been accused of conspiring to kill Goodman Pritchett's wife. Goodman Pritchett has confessed that you bewitched her riding horse. It trampled her to death. How do you plead?"

Gaelen doesn't say a word. He just looks at the man, and the magistrate flinches back a little. Six months ago Gaelen gentled a pony for the man's youngest daughter.

They stand him up on his feet and step back. It would be unseemly to execute a man while he's on his knees. Gaelen stands there in the center of a large circle of his neighbors and so called friends. He turns his face towards the sky and closes his eyes.

Thunder in the distance. _I'm coming, Gaelen. _Samirah rumbles._ It's time._

The first stone makes him stagger, but he stays on his feet.

For a little while, at least.

* * *

_Time._

He's on the edge, slipping away. He lies crumpled on the ground, an insignificant smear of spilled blood and broken bones.

_You can't cross over…_the black horse whispers.

One more breath, one more heartbeat.

_You won't…_

A warm wind comes out of the south flows gently over his broken, bruised skin. Dean's heartbeat starts up again, slow at first. He doesn't flinch when Samirah's shadow falls over him, black as night.

_You'll wait for me, because you know that we belong together. _

She bows her head, folds her forelegs neatly, carefully, as she kneels on the ground next to him.

Gaelen was silent while they stoned him. The ropes binding his arms behind his back turns to dust. He bites back the scream that rises up, red and raw in his throat. His bones scrape and splinter against each other, his damaged nerve endings shriek out in pain, but he ignores it. He ignores it all. All he can think about is pulling himself upright. He struggles up, grabbing at her thick mane with bloodied, torn fingers.

Samirah waits until he settles awkwardly on her back. The bones in his shattered body shift and grind against themselves, but he barely feels it.

As Samirah rises to her feet the air around the two of them darkens. Gaelen's eyes spark copper. The torn and bloodied garments he wore fade away into a jet black cassock, black pants, black boots and a long black leather hooded coat. Samirah proudly wears smooth black tack that materializes on her out of thin air.

They're bonded forever now, unnaturally perfect. He has his mount, and she has him.

They walk slowly down the main street of the town. Nothing touches them. Not the lightning, not the winds, or torrential rains.

The town burns all around them and Gaelen never looks back.

* * *

Not all deaths are big, spectacular. Not all of them call for the four of them to ride together. There are two man jobs and Gaelen has to smile at that, especially when he thinks of Rika.

It's another job, another town. Chale rides through first. He brings smallpox. Cholera.

He sits his big grey horse quietly on the hill overlooking the dying town. Pestilence looks thoughtful as Gaelen rides up.

By the time Gaelen rides in on the black, it's a mercy.

"I envy you, Gaelen. We do good work. Work that has to be done, but there's suffering too. Not gonna sugarcoat it." Chale shrugs those massive shoulders of his. "By the time you and your girl two show up, it's over, and most of them know it. It's an end. It's peace. Most of them cross over."

The black horse snorts and rolls her eyes. She's impatient, ready to move on to the next assignment. Gaelen's too new to this. Everything is a wonder to him, although he tries not to show it.

He loses himself in his work. They go where ever they're needed, where ever it's time. There are demons in the world now. They show their faces more often.

Gaelen and Samirah meet Azazel first in Africa. They meet him four more times after that.

* * *

The thing in front of them runs, hopping and skittering. It kicks up desert sand as it switches from two legs to all fours as it gallops along underneath the full moon. It's a patchwork beast, held together by black thread and dark magic, one of Azazel's hobbies run amok. One head faces front, and the other one faces the rear. It laughs, stretches its undead mouth in a wide toothy grin at the black horse and rider behind it.

Gaelen and Samirah have seen enough of this puppet's bloody handiwork.

Samirah runs flat out. Galen leans forward in the saddle, holding the reins loosely. He doesn't have to urge her, either with his heels or his hands.

Azazel's priest was the last human to die that night, in the temple they left behind, just as he let the creature out of its cage. He holds his hand up as though that would stop anything.

Samirah snorts and paws at the ground, her eyes flashing reddish gold. Gaelen sits her proudly, the hood of his long leather coast casting his face in deep shadow. His green eyes flash bright bright copper.

The trinket in the old man's hand is supposed to ward off Death. Well, there's death, and then there's _Death_. ""Horseman, pass by," the old man intones grandly. "This is none of your concern."

"It is because we say it is," Gaelen says softly. The priest crumbles in on himself. His flesh withers into curled flaps of dried skin, dust and ashes.

Gaelen wheels Samirah around in the opposite direction as the rest of Azazel's cult flees. There's no sign of the yellow eyed bastard. Only his beast and his flunkies.

The thing runs two legged now, runs in the dark. There's a town up ahead, just over the rise, full of warm, unsuspecting flesh. Plenty of food for this unnatural thing to feast on. If it reaches the town it'll get bigger, stronger, grow more heads, more arms and legs as it eats.

It happens in a blink of an eye. The head facing the rear laughs at the horseman pursuing them and suddenly the big black horse is right _there_, right beside them. The rider looks down at the beast with a wink, the corners of that full mouth twitch upwards in a smirk.

The rear head frowns. The creature hunches over as it switches to four legs, running on its hands and feet.

The black horse and rider are right next to them now, and no matter how much the creature lunges forward, it can't get away. It has enough sense not to touch them, but even that doesn't matter.

The right hand falls off first, turned to dust, hardly noticeable in the desert sand. It nearly falls, then loses its balance on the left as the left leg breaks apart, shreds itself into shattered bone and dust.

The beast continues to crawl, even when it's just a torso writhing in the dust. Gaelen and Samirah circle it until there's nothing left. It goes the way of all flesh, turns to dust in a matter of minutes, howling and gobbling underneath the full moon, in view of the lights of the town ahead.

Gaelen strokes Samirah's neck with pride and gratitude. As they ride away, he imagines he hears Azazel's bellow of rage.

That makes Gaelen smile a little.

* * *

Dean takes one breath. He shudders with it, his head bobbing back and forth. Samirah whickers softly and leans into him a little, just enough to keep him on his feet.

Dean blinks dazedly in the bright sunlight.

_Come with me,_ the black whispers. _It's over. It's done. People die, Gaelen. They do. Sometimes you can save them, and sometimes you can't._

Dean shakes his head. "My brother. My Dad...I can't leave them like that. I can't…"

"Let the man decide for himself, why don't you?" this voice says from behind. Samirah reacts immediately. She backs up, circles around Dean, her head lowered, her eyes suddenly gone dark with murder and rage. Dean stumbles, grabs hold of her mane as he prevents himself from face planting into the asphalt.

He jerks around, his arm draped over Samirah's neck.

The woman standing behind them smiles cruelly. She's brunette, about Dean's age, dressed in a sleek black dress that leaves nothing to the imagination, with impossibly high stiletto heels.

"Hi, Dean. Hmmm." She looks him over, takes it all in, and licks her lips with the tip of her tongue, slowly. "You're just the way I like my men. Broken and beautiful. There's a little less of you than there was before, but that doesn't matter. I'm easy that way. Just a sucker for damaged strays."

"Whoa! Hey!" Dean yells out as the black horse lunges at the woman. Samirah snorts and stays in place, only because Dean's still weak. He'd fall down if she moved away from him and she knows it.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean grates out.

He thinks he knows. He thinks wrong.

Her hazel eyes go completely white. "You really think I'd leave this up to that dumb bitch who works for me? After the way you tricked her the last time? I don't think so. You're the one soul I'd come up top to make the deal personally. Pleased to meet you, Dean Winchester. I'm Lillith."

* * *

To be continued next week.


	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N: _**You wanted a long chapter, Phoebe, you got it. Merisha, I hope this makes you happy. You too, Master Li, and lime juize!

**_Disclaimer:_** I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment purposes only. Not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 8 **_

_Bitch,_ Samirah mutters to herself. Those reddish gold eyes of hers gleam in the sunlight as she bows her neck like a war horse, sidesteps to her left.

All the energy Dean felt an hour before comes flowing back into him. He straightens up on his feet. He feels good. Damn good. If this skank expects him to fall down and worship at her feet, she better think again. "So?"

"So?" Lillith frowns. It's obviously not the reception she was expecting, or is used to getting. "You know _what_ I am, right?"

"Lilitu. Adam's first wife. Mesopotamian storm demon." Dean ticks off the various names on the fingers of his left hand and sounds bored while he does it. "Lamai. Mother of all succubi. Depending on who you talk to, you're also a psychotic skank who enjoys killing kids."

"No need to be rude, Dean. I came." Lillith crosses her arms in front of her chest. If Dean didn't know better he'd think her feelings were hurt. "I can always leave."

_Go on, then._ Samirah tosses her head. It sounds like she's laughing.

"You could, but I don't think you will." Dean smirks. "I'm the one soul you'd come topside to deal for, remember?"

Dean blinks, and she's gone. He stares down at this innocent looking little girl with long light brown hair, wearing a pink pinafore and shiny black patent leather shoes with white socks. She looks up at him, smiles as she touches the stump of his right hand. "This didn't hurt that much, did it? Not as much as seeing your brother and your father die."

It comes back to him then, the scent of Sam and John dying, thick and heavy in his nose and throat, burning pork smell mixed with sulfur. Dean growls at her, and Lillith laughs, a light, almost musical sound. "I've got many names. Many forms."

She looks him up and down, hungrily, and for a split second Dean sees beneath that smooth, unlined skin, sees bluish grey skin, bird talons for feet, massive dark wings at her back.

Dean blinks again, and only the young girl is there now. "You should feel flattered. I don't trust any of my saleswomen to handle _your_ deal, Dean."

"Get your damn hands off me."

"Come on, Winchester. Don't be like that." Another eye blink, and Lillith's tall and willowy this time, smooth peach colored skin, straight bluish black hair down to her waist. She's light and airy in that backless green sundress of hers, but Dean's not fooled one bit.

She walks behind him and she laughs as he tracks her movements, turns to keep her in sight. Her breath rustles the short hair at the back of his neck, raises goosebumps on his skin. "All those times you cheated death, boy, you were just getting comped. House rules."

Samirah steps to Dean's side just then. Her head is lowered, slightly tilted to one side, as she focuses on Lillith. The air around Samirah is charged with energy that prickles Dean's skin. If he gives the word, she'll unload on Lillith.

Dean raises his left hand, strokes Samirah's neck. Her muscles shiver underneath his fingertips.

_Not yet_, he says silently, and the big black horse nods.

"Get to the friggin' point before I forget why I'm here," Dean snaps.

"Beauty , brains, and spirit. I like that in a man, Dean. And you're _still _beautiful, you know." She reaches out, somehow snags the dark sunglasses from Dean's face. Dean jerks backwards as Samirah bares her teeth.

Lillith smiles as she studies the scars around Dean's right eye. "Being damaged like that suits you somehow."

"I'm underwhelmed," Dean grates out roughly. "Did you come here to make a deal, or just play around?"

She grins as she hands him back his shades. "I'm listening."

"I want my dad and my brother back. Alive and well." Dean slips his sunglasses into his jacket pocket. "You bring them back, let them live out their lives the way they were supposed to. Give me ten years with them, and after that your hellhounds can drag me down to the pit. I won't welsh on the deal. I won't fight, and I won't run."

_Gaelen._ Samirah stretches her neck out, gives Dean a pretty good sideways shove that makes him stumble a little.

"Not now. 'm busy," Dean growls at her, but there's no real heat in his voice.

The damn brother and father. The black shakes her head. She's not sorry they're dead. Not at all. He was hers when he was _Gaelen_, before he was ever their _Dean_.

"I can do better than that." The smirk on Lillith's face suddenly makes Dean feel uneasy.

"What?"

Lillith reaches out to run her fingers through Samirah's forelock. The black horse apparently has other ideas; she snorts, pins her ears to her head and sidesteps Lillith's outstretched hand. Samirah's eyes flash red. Thunder rumbles overhead, despite the clear sky above. Lillith smiles as she pulls back.

"Your girl there thinks the world of you. She could've _forced_ you to ride, back when you first met her. She didn't. The others? War, Famine, and Pestilence? They still think very highly of you, Dean."

Dean doesn't say a word. He's here to make a deal, not to share and care. Samirah gently pushes her shoulder into his, nuzzles at the side of his face with her soft black nose.

"It bothers you, doesn't it? Forcing yourself _not_ to ride." Lillith smiles, tilts her head to one side as if she's listening to a beautiful melody. "I can hear all the muscles in your body, Dean. They're screaming. Those strong shoulders. And that fine, broad back of yours. You're strung out, stretched way too tight."

"Get to the point." Dean reaches up to card Samirah's long, thick mane. He forgets for a moment, leads with his right instead of his left.

His eyes widen.

He can _feel_.

Feel those phantom fingers of his twitch, feel Samirah's silky soft mane between his fingers.

Dean's game face stays firmly in place. Lillith doesn't notice.

Dean switches to his left hand.

"I can give you everything you want." Lillith spreads her arms out wide. "Everything."

She shifts again, this time into a small black girl with hazel eyes, about twelve years old from the look of her. Smooth chocolate brown skin, a heart-shaped face framed by long wavy black hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wears blue jeans and a Hannah Montana t shirt.

Lillith goes on with her spiel, and Dean just stands there, idly rubbing Samirah's neck and shoulders. Demons love to hear themselves talk. Dean knows that; it's nothing new. The thing that bothers him, that makes his skin crawl, is the idea that the kids and the women are Lillith's victims. Dean doesn't know how he knows _that_, but he wouldn't bet against it.

"You can ride again. Without guilt or hesitation." The demoness morphs into an older woman, silver haired, tall and sturdy, with a kind open face, blue jeans and jacket. "You can have John and Sam back. All you have to do in return is just one little thing, the thing you were born to do, Dean. The thing you were created to do in the first place. Ride. Ride with the others. War, Pestilence, and Famine. I have their cooperation, but it all depends on you. There's all kinds of death. Everyday, mundane. And then there's _you_, Dean. You evolved. You're a blend of human and Other. There never was another one like you, before, or since."

"You're talking about the end of the world," Dean says flatly.

Lillith shrugs. "Not really. Just some parts of it. Vatican City, for one." She shifts again, into a petite blonde this time, in a purple halter top and faded blue jeans, multi-colored jelly bracelets on both wrists. "There are some other places that need…special attention." She smiles at her cleverness, razor sharp, bright.

"What happened to the horseman who took my place?"

"Didn't work out."

"Okay," Dean nods. "Why aren't we at the crossroads?"

She smirks. "I'm the boss. I'm not bound by that. Never knew you were such a stickler for detail, Winchester. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll meet you there. Give you and your girl some quality time. I prefer to conduct my business at night anyway, you understand. Moonrise in four hours, Dean. Four hours. If you're not there, my offer's null and void."

"What's the time frame for the deal? Ten years?"

"No. I like you, Dean. I really do. Told you I'm a sucker for a pretty face, so tell you what I'm gonna do. I'll bring John and Sam back, and I'll see to it that they never die, ever again. If that doesn't sweeten the pot I don't know what will. For the value I'm giving you, I think forever would be more than fair."

Dean huffs. "I'd be your bitch. For all eternity. That what you're telling me?"

"That's an ugly way to put it. Yes."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then John and Sam stay crispy critters. Burnt toast. Ashes in the wind."

Dean's eyes narrow. "Watch your mouth, bitch."

"And you go through the rest of your life, however long that might be, wishing you were dead. If you kill yourself so that you can join them, you go to hell, and you'll never see them again anyway."

Dean blinks and the brunette in the skin-tight dress is back. She balances on those stilettos heels of hers as she turns and walks away.

"Even if you ride away from this, from me, you won't be able to outrun that hole inside you. It'll grow, Dean. Get bigger. Swallow you up." She actually makes a clucking sound with her tongue. She's fading out, fading away. Dean can see the trees and the fields through her.

"If you don't show, you'll be hurting all the people you love, and you know what? I can't believe you'd be that selfish. See you in four hours, boychick."

Another blink, and she's gone.

* * *

Huh." Dean walks down the road. He stops right where Lillith vanished.

He doesn't see Samirah's sleek black hide ripple with dark blue energy from her nose to her tail. Samirah huffs as she walks up behind him.

_Well? _She puts her chin on his shoulder.

"I keep expecting you to call me 'Wilbur,'" Dean says out loud.

_Why?_ Samirah pricks her ears. _I thought your name was Dean this time._

"Wilbur Post? Mr. Ed? A horse is a horse, of course, of course…" She just stares at him, ears twitching slightly. "It's a joke." Dean finishes up lamely.

_Oh._ Samirah doesn't sound convinced.

"You're gonna have to brush up on pop culture if you're gonna hang with me." He finally turns around, takes one look at her and stops dead in his tracks. "Uh…"

Samirah lowers her head as she shyly blinks those long lashes of hers. She won't look at Dean directly.

She's fully tacked now, all in black. She wears her bridle proudly; the leather is just as sleek, just as impossibly black as she is. The curb bit and buckles are silver metal. Dean squints at the intricate designs carved into the cheek pieces, the headstall, and the reins. The saddle is made of smooth black leather, with intricate interlocking circles and sigils carefully engraved into the fender and the skirt. Even the saddle cloth is black.

"Damn," Dean breathes. He stands there, shocked into stillness for a moment, as he takes it all in. "I mean…damn."

The reins are gathered back, loosely tied over Samirah's withers. The saddle's like nothing Dean's ever seen before. There's no saddle horn. That's not a problem. It's not Western, but it's familiar. He knows the contours of that saddle as well as he knows the Impala.

Dean walks around Samirah, and he forgets again, leads with his right instead of his left, but this time he can see the shadow of his missing right hand. He can feel his muscles tense and flex, he can feel her sleekness underneath his fingertips as he lovingly runs his fingers over the crest of her neck, the point of her shoulder, her quarters and her croup.

He spreads his right hand flat against the seat of the saddle, and the past engulfs him, sparks against his skin like an electric shock.

The center of Dean's eyes spark bright copper, and for a moment Dean forgets to breathe.

* * *

It's a large operation, thousands of souls crossing over this time. The reapers whisper and talk among themselves as Gaelen rides by. They're every color of the human rainbow, both sexes, all ages. Whatever it takes to make the soul's transition smoother. It's the first time he's worked with many of them, and he scans the crowd for one familiar face above all others.

He doesn't see her. She's not there.

Maybe she forgot. Maybe she had better things to do, and just said she'd be there just to get away from him. Gaelen feels a sharp pain somewhere in his gut. It's not a physical pain, but it's just as sharp.

It's stupid to feel that way. He's a Horseman, for God's sake, charged with bringing eternal peace to the living, yet he's always felt that he was always the one left out, the one that's always overlooked. He's thrown himself into his work for the past year, but it's not enough. There's something missing and he doesn't know what it is.

Gaelen holds himself in so tightly, an onlooker wouldn't notice the slight slump to his shoulders, but the black horse does.

_Something wrong?_

_No. _

_Huh. Tessa knows you're here. _Samirah whickers softly._ She'll be here._

_Am I that obvious?_

Samirah laughs, low and rumbling. _Yes, Gaelen. Yes, you are. _

He sits tall in the saddle as he rides by. Wouldn't do to come in all sad and defeated looking. He glances at the reapers, nods slightly, and they stare back at him. He's the elite, and they know it.

Gaelen scans the crowd for one face in particular, and when he sees her, he feels like shouting. He sees her from behind at first, but a lot of reapers have shoulder-length dark brown hair, even some of the males do.

Tessa turns and smiles at him. The sense of relief Gaelen feels makes him feel shaky. She didn't forget. She came. Just like she said she would.

She likes him.

Samirah snorts. _You are so adorable when you get like that._

_Hush up._

That bright smile of hers warms his heart. He keeps his composure, walks Samirah over to a point a little away from the crowd. He dismounts, slow and dignified, as befits a Horseman, but as soon as Tessa's slim hand slips into his Gaelen lifts her up and spins around slowly with her in his arms.

If that makes the others look at him funny, then Gaelen just doesn't give a damn.

"Missed you." She brushes her lips against his and Gaelen leans into the touch.

She twines her fingers with his. They stand there for a moment. "You're still new at this. You should take a break after we're done here. You need to find something to do in your spare time."

The other three Horsemen assemble nearby. They look at Gaelen and nod, but they don't come over. "Rika," Tessa looks at Famine. "She has a farm. A large one. She shares her bounty with all her neighbors."

Pestilence checks the girth on his big grey. Tessa nods at him. "Chale's a healer."

War brushes the coat of his big red stallion until it shines. "Tiesen's kept the peace in these parts for decades."

"Uh, okay." Gaelen ducks his head. He hasn't felt this clumsy since he was a boy. "Will…will you come with me then?"

Tessa tilts her chin up at him and smiles wistfully. "I have to work."

Gaelen sighs, and deflates a little. Samirah comes over, rests her chin on the top of his shoulder. She snorts, loud and long.

_Why do you need her? You've got me._

Gaelen rolls his eyes. Samirah softly lips at his jawline, and he laughs as he brushes her away.

They hear it just then, as a bugler plays the notes, light and golden, that tell all that it's time to assemble.

Tessa sighs. She and Gaelen walk towards the other Horsemen. His eyes narrow at the sight of two humans standing over to the far left. The air around them is filled with the faint imprint of wings in the bright afternoon. He thinks he knows what they are, but he's still new at this. Better to ask, to make sure.

"And they are?"

Tessa shrugs. "Bureaucrats. They come down every once in a while to observe."

The body Castiel occupies is that of a black female, an older woman with thick curly white hair. She wears simple but expensive looking robes of blue and silver. Uriel's spirit is barely contained inside the body of a tall gangly youth dressed in simple brown clothing.

"So they're harvesting mud monkeys today. Thousands of them." Uriel says loudly. "I still think our talents could be used elsewhere. For a greater purpose." Samirah tags along behind Tessa and Gaelen.

"It's just so…primitive." Uriel looks at the black horse and sneers. "Riding these bags of bones. Fit only for the bone yard."

Tessa kisses Gaelen on the cheek. She can feel him tense up at the insult. "Behave yourself," she whispers into his left ear.

"Can't promise that," Gaelen whispers back.

Tessa smiles and goes to join her group.

"Well now. This Horseman. The new Death, is it? I've heard a lot about _you_." Uriel laughs, and there's absolutely no humor in the sound. Gaelen walks over to the edge of the cliff overlooking the valley and looks down at the city below.

Uriel's suddenly _there_, too close, right in Gaelen's face, as Samirah walks up behind them both. "Heard you were afraid of heights."

"You have me mistaken for someone else." Gaelen gathers up the reins, swings into the saddle easily. The black horse snorts.

"Oh, I don't think so, _boy._" Uriel laughs. "If you're afraid, I could give you a hand. See you get down safely."

The other one, Castiel, looks pained. One angel will never go against another, not these two anyway, and everyone knows it.

Gaelen turns the black away from the rocky cliff. Uriel laughs out loud. "See? I told you about that one. He'll take the long way around. Get there after everything is over."

Rika, Chale and Tiesen sit their mounts quietly as Gaelen walks Samirah by them. He walks her back about fifty feet.

_I could put a lightning bolt up his ass_, Samirah thinks roughly. _Ruffle those feathers of his._

Gaelen laughs. _Save that thought for another time._

She wheels around smoothly, on a dime when he asks her to, with a slight right hand tug of the reins and a slight nudge of his boot on her right side. Samirah stretches out, her stride easily twenty five feet long. There's a moment when Gaelen feels like whooping, yelling just for the pure joy of it, as they reach the edge of the cliff and leap off into space.

Samirah pricks her ears forward. She hits the ground running, stretched out, perfectly balanced. She leads with her right leg, and as soon as her forelegs touch the ground Gaelen drops the reins and leans back in the saddle, balancing himself perfectly in time with her.

Up on the edge of the cliff, Rika snorts in derision, rolls her eyes at Uriel and Castiel as she races for the edge of the cliff, and over. "Bags of bones, huh?" she calls out. "Overgrown pigeons."

Chale and Tiesen allowed her to go first.

Well, not really, but that's their story, and they stick to it.

* * *

Three days later, Samirah shakes her head as Gaelen adjusts her saddle. It's a new one, different from the one she's used to. He's dressed differently too, not in all black as is customary, but more like the humans she sees all around, in grays and browns.

She doesn't like this, but she tries to act casual. _Why are we doing this?_

_We need a change. _Gaelen tries not to smile too much as he walks around her, checks the gear one more time. It doesn't matter if she doesn't like it. She'll follow him regardless._ We're out of balance._

_What?_ She lays her ears back against her head.

_We're missing something, y'know._

Samirah looks at the town, and snorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. Looks like any other town she's ever seen._ Are we going to release them?_

_No. We're going to live down there with them. _She swelled up when he put the new saddle on her. Now that she's relaxed, the new saddle's just a little too loose. Gaelen tightens the girth up just a little. Samirah doesn't seem to notice, she's just so intent on asking _why_.

_We…what?_

_We're going to live with them. Just for a while_. Gaelen runs his fingers through her forelock. She's beautiful. Just as perfect as the day he first saw her.

* * *

Dean comes back to himself slowly, easily, standing in the sunlight with Samirah's reins in his left hand. She stands beside him patiently, quietly, and there was never a question of what he was going to do, what he was going to decide.

He leads with his right hand again, and once he settles into the saddle he just sits there, staring thoughtfully at the ghost of his right hand. The color is pale, an eerie golden color. It's familiar but he can't place it.

Whatever this is, Dean highly doubts that Lillith had anything to do with this.

_Four hours. Four hours until moonrise. _

Plenty of time._  
_

There's that high fence over there. Eighteen feet tall.

No problem.

And maybe, just maybe, there are hillsides in the area. Tall ones.

Maybe even a cliff.

Samirah jiggles the bit in her mouth as she shakes her head. _Now what?_

Dean smiles, warm and genuine. It takes years off his face, makes him look young again. All the tension in his body melts away just then. He gathers up the reins, loosely. He trusts her, just like she trusts him.

"Let's ride."

* * *

Haven't forgotten about Bobby and Ellen, either. Next chapter will be posted Sunday.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N:**_ Oh, did I say Sunday? Missed it by THAT much. Ooops.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, not profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 9**_

"Damn," Bobby breathes.

Ellen keeps her eyes on the road. "Not exactly the kinda thing I want to hear, Singer. _Not. At. All_."

"Something's wrong." Bobby frowns at the road map. The tracking stone has crumbled into dust.

"What the hell does_ that_ mean?"

"I don't know. Pull over. _Now._"

Ellen maneuvers the Chevelle through traffic, onto the shoulder of the highway.

"We got a general direction, but we need to pin this down even more…" Bobby's talking this out loud, and Ellen lets him.

Bobby blinks. "Let me think for a minute. That…that note Dean left…."

_I couldn't protect Sam and Dad…_

"There was this case the boys went on last year...Sam mentioned it to me. Something about a damn crossroads demon near this bar…"

…_.and now I gotta make this right._

"People were selling their souls, making deals," Bobby said slowly. "Dean tricked the damn thing to save this civilian. Sam was bothered by the whole thing, thought about making a deal for his girl at Stanford. Said he thought Dean was tempted, wanted to make a deal to bring his mother back, get his family back together…"

…_so maybe what I'm gonna do now will give it some meaning, you know?_

"How the hell did I miss that?" Bobby whispers quietly to himself. He pushes his hat back on his head, very carefully rubs at the space between his eyes. He can feel a headache coming on. A good one. He could blame his screw-up on the sleeping pills Dean slipped him, the grogginess, but Bobby's not gonna let himself off that easy. "Damn it! If it was a snake it woulda bit me in the ass."

"Now that's an image I coulda done without." Ellen chuckles. You gonna share with the rest of the class, Singer?"

"Dean's headed to Lloyd's Bar. He's gonna make a deal with the damn thing."

Ellen stares into the rear view mirror, gauges the traffic and guns the Chevelle back onto the highway. "Not on our watch he's not."

* * *

_I think I'll pass on the seventy two virgins, thanks. I'm not that into prudish chicks, anyway._

_Tessa smiles warmly, puts her hand on Dean's jaw. That's funny. You're very cute._

Dean jerks upright in the saddle so suddenly that Samirah stops. It's a short, sharp blast from the past that's so intense it makes his head ache a little. He blinks away that darkened hospital room, finds himself in the sunlight again.

The black almost yawns as she flicks her ears back and forth. _Figured you'd remember sooner or later._

_The…the hospital…after the crash…_

_Yep._

_Tessa…why…why the hell didn't she tell me?_

Samirah huffs. _Would you have believed her if she had?_

_Well…no. _

_All right, then._ Samirah starts walking again, slow and stately.

Dean picks up on the rumble of the car's engine half a mile back long before he actually sees the car. For a wild moment he imagines it's Bobby in the Impala, but the pitch of the engine is different, (_1968 Pontiac GTO…a goat...gas, tires, and oil_) and he relaxes in the saddle again.

Samirah whickers softly. _Something wrong?_

Dean shakes his head. He's feeling pretty mellow right about now. He was right about there being a cliff nearby.

And he was right about Samirah being able to handle it.

Been a long time since Dean laughed, really laughed, just for the pure hell of it, the sheer joy of it. He whooped like a maniac the moment they went airborne. Samirah means _entertaining companion;_ Dean knows that now.

She lives up to her name, all right.

The car slows down as it comes up alongside of horse and rider. Dean already knows what color it's gonna be (_burgundy, with a black vinyl top…just had a tune-up_). A part of him wonders how the hell he can do that now, but then all he has to do is glance down at Samirah and know that his life has already changed. He's holding the reins, loose and easy, in his right hand.

Thing is, he's not supposed to have a right hand anymore.

The hand's still transparent. The colors change slightly as he turns it from side to side in the sunlight. His skin color shifts from faint gold to a pale blue. Dean can even see the whorls of his fingerprints, the light, almost invisible hair on the back of his hand.

_Damn. _

He doesn't know if it's for the better. Doesn't care. And considering the clusterfuck his life was before, without John and Sam, Dean doesn't want to change it back.

Driver's side window of the GTO is already rolled down. "Why don't you get a real car, Wilbur?" the dude bellows. The passenger laughs, way too loud.

It's not that _damn _funny.

_A horse is a horse, of course, of course._ Samirah snorts.

And so does Dean.

Dumb and Dumber in the GTO don't look anything alike (_one's dark haired, broad, the other's a little taller, skinny and red-headed_) but Dean gets the family connection. He knows they're cousins, just like he gets the fact that they're gonna die in another month, in a twisted, flaming wreck at a railroad crossing nearby because Dumb thought he could beat the train.

Samirah whickers as Dean strokes her neck. "Bet my girl could blow your doors off, pal."

Dumb laughs again. _Name's Carter Jenkins._ "That nag? Like to have some of whatever it is you been smokin', pal."

Dean's eyes narrow as he nods ahead. "Got fifty bucks in my pocket that says so."

Samirah pricks her ears up.

Dumber actually guffaws. _His name's Andy Redford. _Reason enough why brothers marrying sisters is illegal in all fifty states.

Dumb rolls his eyes. "Hate to take your money like that, pal, seeing as how you just got out of the mental hospital and all, and you need to buy your meds. But, okay. I'll do ya a solid."

Samirah snorts. _This won't take long._

Dumb grins. "On three?"

Dean leans forward slightly. The smirk on his face is absolutely wicked. "Three."

Samirah moves.

Dean can't describe the feeling. Samirah just stretches forward into a stride too smooth to even be real. Compared to her, going zero to sixty seconds is just too damn slow. She's seventy yards away already before the humans even react. Dumb gives out a startled yelp as he puts his lead foot to the gas pedal.

The GTO roars forward. They run even like that for another seventy yards.

_Gaelen? I'm bored._

_Sure you are. Let's go, Sammy._

_Sammy?_

_Uh…sorry._

_Hmph._

Everything slows down just then. Dean can still hear the rumble of the GTO's engine. He can't even feel Samirah's hooves hitting the ground. They pull farther ahead in an eye blink. They're a streak of black lightning in the distance.

They're gone.

* * *

"Dude," Carter says a few minutes later. "That was bogus."

Andy shakes his head. "Knew you weren't gonna pay the dude. You don't have fifty bucks anyway."

"We're going the long way around. Don't wanna run into that freak again," Carter grumbles. He glances into the rear view mirror. It's clear. Good.

Andy starts sputtering and Carter looks forward.

_Damn._

The freak on that freaky big black horse are standing there. Right in the middle of the freakin' road, even after Carter and Andy left their asses miles back on the road in the opposite direction.

Carter stops the car. The horse's eyes flash reddish gold, and somehow he knows better than to run.

"Let's be clear about one thing, Carter. Andy," the freak drawls. "You two idjits are wasting your time out here. You're not that smart, and you sure in the hell aren't as fast as you think you are. This ain't _Fast and Furious_, and if I compared either one of you to Vin Diesel and Paul Walker, I'd have to apologize to both of 'em."

He clicks softly to the horse, and the big animal moves forward, circling the car with her neck bowed, snorting. "Don't even know why I care, but I'm gonna give you two dummies a heads up. In one month, exactly one month to the day, today, you're gonna die. There's a railroad crossing about a half mile from here, and Dumbass there thinks he can outrun the train at the crossing. I know you've done it before and gotten away with it, but guess what, kids? Luck runs out. It always does. In an argument with a train, the car will _always_ lose. Remember that, boys and girls."

Carter rubs his eyes. He's seeing things. He's seeing things, and he's sober. The freak seems to blink in and out with every step the horse takes. He's wearing a battered brown leather jacket and faded blue jeans one moment, and the next he's got on this long black outfit that looks like something out of the Matrix, with a hooded black leather coat. One minute the freak's eyes look green and normal. The next minute those scars around his right eye fade, and those green eyes of his are copper, bright and merciless.

And the horse? Her nostrils are red and fiery. She breathes white steam with every exhale. The air around her ripples with lightning.

Andy's sitting there with this deer in the headlights expression.

And Carter's soiled himself.

"You got friends, and family. You want to put them through that, fine. I can't stop you," the freak rumbles. "Consider this your wake up call, dummies. Your choice whether you wanna listen or not. You either see me _now_, or see me in thirty days."

"See you in thirty…dude, who _are _you?" Carter wails.

The freak smiles. "I'm Death." The dude's face turns into a bleached bone white skull, framed by the deep black leather hood. The horse rears up, pawing at the air. Lightning splits the air, thunder rolls.

Andy and Carter scream loud and long like two little girls.

They blink, and the freak and his horse are gone.

Carter opens the car door, and stumbles out onto the pavement. He really, really feels like he wants to hurl. It's just a dream, that's it. That's all. A damn flashback from those meds he scored from his grandma's medicine cabinet.

And then he looks down and sees the hoofprints burned into the pavement all around the car, still steaming slightly, edged by melted asphalt.

Carter loses it then. He starts screaming.

A second later, Andy does too.

* * *

_Well, that was fun,_ Samirah comments dryly. They're half a mile away already, crossing an open field.

_Think it worked?_

_If we don't see them in thirty days we'll know, won't we?_

Dean laughs.

_They're stupid. We'll see them again in thirty days, Gaelen._

_I know. _

_

* * *

_

Bobby slips his cell phone back into his vest pocket.

"Well?" Ellen puts the Chevelle into the fast lane, avoids that slowdown behind that tanker truck.

"We're an hour out from Lloyd's Bar. Got the directions from the bartender."

"Okay." Ellen's silent for a moment. She remembers the way Dean withdrew from the world, remembers the dead, dull look in those wide green eyes. The man was broken, shattered into a million pieces. Life without John and Sam wasn't worth living. She also remembers how lively Dean looked whenever she saw him around his dad and his brother. He was full of life, and she enjoyed watching him, even though she tried not to be so obvious about it. She was old enough to be his mother, for God's sake, and she was perving on the boy.

Still and all, Ellen wondered. Wondered what she would do if she was in the same situation, if Jo and Bill were both dead, wondered if she wouldn't feel the same way. Make the same deal.

"Okay, what?" Bobby rumbles.

"You think we're doing the right thing? I mean, it's his life. His choice." Bobby's eyes narrow, but Ellen won't back down. "I'm just saying, Bobby."

She can't read his body language for a moment. Then Bobby untenses, lets out the breath he's been holding. He glances out the window and then looks Ellen in the eyes. The muscles in his face relax.

"I've known about crossroads demons for the last fifteen years," Bobby says quietly. "Day hasn't gone by when I haven't thought about them. Wondered about it, what kind of deal I could make to get my wife back."

Ellen nods. She thinks of Bill Harvelle, thinks of him laughing and full of life, not bloody and forever still.

"Well, we've come this far." Bobby quirks an eyebrow at her. "You wanna turn back?"

"Hell no."

"All right then."

* * *

Samirah takes another step, and Dean feels it again. The memory rises up all around him, and he's Gaelen again. The clothes he wears now are simple, brown and black. He blends in with the locals nicely, except that his hair is now shoulder-length, bleached blond from the sun.

He saw a human in one of the villages with a goatee. He liked the way it looked, so he's got one now. Just something he thought he'd try out.

Samirah looked heartily offended when Gaelen suggested that she change her coat to match his hair. Gaelen roared with laughter, and the black horse refused to move for over an hour until he apologized to her.

Spain in the summer, and they're just passing through. They've swum in the Aegean Sea, roamed around Turkey, Italy, and Greece. They've sat in the shade of massive, ancient trees and ate fruit. Apples and cherries, peaches and pears.

They've climbed the Alps at night and sat there staring up at the stars and the moon. Whatever it is that he's looking for, Gaelen hasn't found it yet. Maybe it's like everything else in life. And death.

Maybe _it_ has to find _him_.

Gaelen closes his eyes as Samirah walks along. He breathes in the smell of cooking stoves from the village nearby. Spices, rice and olive oil. Seafood paella. _Paella de marisco._

Gaelen's stomach rumbles a little, and Samirah laughs. _We'll be stopping there for the night, I think._

The other horse and rider fade in beside them almost lazily. Gaelen doesn't blink; neither does Samirah. She tosses her head and whickers softly in greeting. _Misae._

_Samirah. _Misae is a dappled bay roan appaloosa with a long coal black mane and tail. Her coat glows, soft and subtle, lit up from the inside by an inner white light.

The rider smiles, and Gaelen smiles back. "May I have a word with you, young man?"

Gaelen nods. "Of course, ma'm."

She has many names: Aeron, Hel, Thanatos, and Hippoltya. Gaelen's seen other supervisors in the field, of course, but nothing like her.

Everything the Horsemen are sprang from her. She's the end-all and the be-all. He won't call her by any of her names unless she allows it. Gaelen doesn't know if he should dismount and kneel at her feet. Once again, this is something nobody ever told him.

She looks at him and laughs. "I'd rather you didn't dismount and kneel. I'm feeling rather casual today."

Gaelen nods.

Her smooth brown skin reflects the warm of the sun. She's ageless. Her hair is dark brown, shaped into waist length dreadlocks pulled back from her face. Her eyes are hazel; there's a lively, mischievous sparkle in them that Gaelen finds quite attractive. She wears purple robes trimmed in gold, as bright as the sun above. She rides with ease and grace.

"This conflict you're having with Azazel. He's been complaining about you." Her eyes are bright with amusement. "A lot."

Gaelen tries not to smile. "Am I being reprimanded, then?"

"Oh, no. On the contrary. These demons have to understand that they can't have their way in everything. His complaints have been duly noted." She doesn't add "And ignored." She doesn't have to. Gaelen gets it.

"I understand you're crafting a life for yourself in your spare time. Like the others have?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"No need to be so formal, Gaelen. I like what I've heard about you. Tessa thinks very highly of you. And I think the world of her. You can call me Thandie, like all my friends do."

_Oh._

_OH._

"Yes, ma'm…ah, I mean, Thandie."

Samirah and Misae snicker a little. Thandie chuckles, a light, airy sound.

"Ah, I was wondering…" Gaelen says slowly.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to have lunch with me? I know where we can get seafood paella. Don't like to eat alone."

Samirah snorts.

"I would have thought a fine young man like you wouldn't want to have lunch with an old woman," Thandie murmurs softly.

"No, I wouldn't." Gaelen lifts the reins a little as Samirah daintily sidesteps a rather large rock in her path. "But I do want to have lunch with _you_."

Thandie's smile is bright, almost blinding, and Gaelen smiles back in return. "Lead on then, young Horseman. Lead on."

* * *

Samirah takes another step, and Dean eases back into himself, back into the present. He checks his watch. It's on his left hand now, but that's okay. Dad taught his boys to be ambidextrous.

Three hours to go.

Three more hours until he can see John and Sam again.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Misae – Osage name meaning "white sun."

Aeron - Celtic goddess of war and death.

Hel – Norse goddess of death, ruler of the underworld.

Hippoltya – Means "horse freer". Supposedly a daughter of Ares, God of War.

Will update again no later than Sunday. If I can post sooner, I will.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N:**_ My apologies to Led Zeppelin. I mean no disrespect.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 10**_

Sam opens his eyes and stares at the textured beige ceiling above him. The bed's soft and comfortable, but he groans a little. _I can't be dead,_ he thinks blearily to himself._ I got a headache. Damn. _

"Glad to see you made it," a familiar voice rumbles. Sam turns his head towards the doorway. Dad's there, leaning against the door jamb, looking just as relaxed as Sam ever saw him look in life. "Come on, kiddo. Nap time's over. We got work to do."

Sam mutters and mumbles to himself as he sits up. He sits there for a moment as the room does a slow spin around him.

John blinks. "Sometime this year would be nice."

Groaning "Just five more minutes" and turning over would only earn him a boot in the ass from his old man. Hell, Dean didn't fall for that trick, either, not even when they were kids.

So Sam gets up and stumbles over to the doorway. Walking's hard at first; it's almost as though his body has forgotten the trick. He follows John out into the hallway. Dad's just as steady as ever. They go through each room on that floor; Sam's got his balance back again by the time they head down the stairs.

It's the nicest jail Sam's ever been in.

Two stories, three bedrooms. Large and spacious, with blonde hardwood floors, large windows with sheer white curtains. It's just what he always imagined "normal" would look like in the suburbs, and Sam knows that wherever this is, it sure as hell isn't normal. Everything's impossibly perfect, and nothing works, like a model display house.

There's a plastic television in the kitchen, besides the ones in the den and the living room. A fake desktop computer in the den, and a phony laptop in the kitchen. The refrigerator's filled with fake food. Plastic strawberries, empty milk cartons, casserole dishes with fake plastic lasagna.

Outside everything is lush and green, picture perfect. The streets are lined with parked cars, but no one ever drives by. Not a soul on the streets, either, not even to walk the dog or take out the trash.

The sun never sets. As far as Sam can tell, it never moves, either.

John lifts up one of the dining room chairs. Solid weight. Good wood. Sam sees that slight grin on his Dad's face, and he can't help but grin back as he lifts up another chair. Feels good to touch something. Back in the graveyard there was only trees and grass and stone. This is more like it.

John steps up first, slams his chair hard against the glass.

Nothing. The chair doesn't break. Neither does the window.

Sam's next. He really puts his back into it. He gets the same result.

Nothing.

They take a few more whacks at some of the other windows, and when nothing works they drop that tactic pretty quick. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Winchesters might be dysfunctional as hell, and maybe even a little crazy, but they don't like to waste their time.

Sam finds some jumbo paperclips in that wooden roll-top desk in the den. He works the front door lock as John stands nearby, but he fumbles with the lock. He's normally pretty damn good at lock picking, but for some reason he thinks of Dean as he works. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"We got three bedrooms." John nods. "You and me," Sam says slowly. He stops probing the lock. "You think Dean's all right?"

John huffs. "He'd better be."

"Well. Don't stop on my account," this voice behind them says breezily. "I was expecting a better show than this. But, I suppose it's true what they say. Don't believe the hype. Especially when it comes to you Winchesters."

"Damn it," John whispers under his breath. He slips his game face on as he turns around to face the bastard. John moves, puts himself between Sam and the fugly.

_Not again._ Sam stands up, frowning.

"Can't have you mud monkeys tearing the place up," the black man says with false cheerfulness. He's tall, solidly built and bald as a billard ball, wearing a nice tailored grey suit and a white shirt. There's something about him that screams _Other_, a faint silver shimmer in the air all around him, almost like wings unfurling in the stillness.

That sneer on his face even reaches his eyes. He'd smile just as cheerily while he wrung their necks, and they both know it. Matter of fact, he'd enjoy _that_ even _more_.

Dude's pissed. Pissed off because he has to babysit them.

John looks almost bored. "So tell me, John Wayne. Who'd you piss off to get babysitting duty?"

The man's expression darkens. "What?"

John laughs. "Come on, now. A real mover and shaker like you, you oughta be out somewhere kicking somebody's ass. Instead you're here with us." John shakes his head. "Babysitting," John's own sneer deepens. "That's _way_ below your pay grade, isn't it?"

The air vibrates with the growl that comes out the man's mouth. John blinks, and he's already missed it, they're nose to nose, and the dude has one large hand wrapped around John's throat. John's feet dangle six inches off the floor.

Sam moves at the man, and he's slammed into the opposite wall twenty feet away and held there. Sonofabitch didn't even lay a hand on him.

"I don't need your feeble attempts at humor, Papa," the black man sneers. "You and your boy there? You're weak. Insignificant." He punctuates each word by slamming John backwards into the wall. John's skin burns where the man touches him. It burns like hellfire, but John won't scream out.

"I perform whatever tasks I am assigned," the man snarls. "Mark my words, a new day is coming, and I want you to remember my name when it dawns."

John smirks, despite the pain. "Enlighten me, then, Spongebob."

"Uriel!" the man roars as he slams John backwards against the wall again. "My name is Uriel, you vile slug! You'd do well do remember that." The air around Uriel brightens, glows searing white. When the glow fades John lands on the floor with a thump. He leans forward, pulls in one uneven breath after another. And laughs. "Out-fucking-standing."

Sam leans back against the wall. His knees and legs are like rubber, so he just slides down and lands on the floor with a thump. "Dad? What the hell was _that_?"

John's smile gets even wider. "Oh, _that_? Went fishing. I baited my hook and he took the bait."

"Uh huh. Yeah."

"Got a name now," John rasps as he struggles to his feet. "Names have power. And that sonofabitch's name is Uriel. It's not much, but it's a start."

* * *

As soon as they reach the top of the hill Dean lays the reins loosely over Samirah's withers. She pins her ears back when he dismounts. He walks a few feet away from her, makes a big deal of putting both hands on his hips and stretching his back.

Samirah narrows her eyes when Dean looks back at her. _What?_

"I, uh, have to stretch my legs." Dean's normally bright grin is weak, uncertain. He's pretty sure she's not buying it.

_Sure you do. _She lowers her head, crops at the grass, then just as quickly, lifts her head and walks around Dean in a wide circle.

_This hillside is one of the boring ones,_ Samirah thinks to herself. It's a gentle slope this time. No dizzying heights, totally wrong for any death defying leaps she might have in mind.

Dean walks over to an outcropping of rocks underneath that huge oak tree nearby. He sits down slowly. He turns his right hand over, stares at the way it almost glows in the sunlight. It seems less transparent somehow.

Dean stares at the lifeline in his palm. It's long and curving, from the edge of his palm down to the heel of his hand.

He had his palm read once, by this gypsy woman down in New Orleans years ago, right after Sam left for Stanford. Even though Dean had seen plenty of things in his line of work, he figured palm reading was just a scam. Couldn't hurt to check it out. The hunt the night before was simple, a 'geist in an office building nearby. Dean was bored that day, looking for something to do before he left town.

Her name was Madame Giselle. And besides, she was one of the most beautiful women Dean had ever seen, before or since.

He smiled at her, his patented Dean Winchester blinding smile, as he turned on the charm. She looked him up and down, and she obviously liked what she saw. Dean turned it on a little more then. He was all leather and stubble and swagger. Maybe they could have dinner later.

And breakfast the next day.

As soon as she touched his right hand her eyes widened and her skin went cold.

She was afraid of him. Dean knew the look, knew she wasn't that good a damn actress. She mumbled some words he recognized (_morte, cavalier_) and a lot more that he didn't. She refused to take the money he offered, and Dean ended up throwing the twenty dollar bill on the table and walking out.

Huh. Guess she really knew her stuff then, although Dean would have figured that Death wouldn't have any lifeline at _all_.

He clenches his right hand tight, opens it up again, flexes his fingers. He has muscles inside this five fingered lightshow of his. If he had gloves on he couldn't feel or see the difference between his right or his left. "Are you…are you doing this?"

Samirah huffs. _No. _

"Huh." He sits there with his hands loose on his knees. Samirah grazes, but she raises her head and looks at Dean when he laughs. It's a sharp, bitter sound. There's no joy in it. There's anger, remorse, and fear.

"She's got me by the short hairs, y' know?" He grins a little then, but it's the same as that laugh: sharp, bright, full of pain boiling just beneath the surface. Dean shakes his head. "This goes against everything I was ever taught. Not to make deals with the damn things, you know? My family hunts them down. We kill them." Dean swallows, as that lump in his throat gets bigger, harder.

Samirah turns her side to him. She moves away, but not too far.

"But the thing…the thing is…" Dean stops. There it is again. That damn lump in his throat. He forces himself to breathe past it, breathes deep to calm that quivering in his chest. He blinks and the corners of his eyes are sandpaper gritty. "…if I take the deal, if I become Lillith's bitch, I can have everything… _everyone_ I ever wanted. Dad. Sam._ You_. Why can't I have what I want for once, huh? I mean, this hero gig, why does it always have to be us?"

Samirah snorts. _You're doing it again. You always do._

"Do what?"

_Ask so many questions. You complicate things,_ she shakes her head from side to side, and that long mane of hers flows into the air like storm clouds. _We could ride away. You don't have to take the deal. _

"My Dad…and my brother. They're my family." Dean shakes his head. "I can't leave them like that. Lillith's got my number. She knows I won't do that."

Samirah lowers her head. She pricks her ears up when Dean turns to her and adds, "And I'm not gonna leave_ you_ either."

_Did…did you miss me?_ After all the things Dean's seen her do, she seems almost shy, like she's afraid to hear the answer, but she can't help herself.

Dean lets out a breath. He nods. "Yeah. Yeah I did."

Samirah shakes her head again as she steps up to him. Her moods flow like a river, twisting and turning. Her eyes glow golden now, and she seems almost playful as she stretches her neck out and pokes him hard in the shoulder with her nose. _No, you didn't._

"Yeah. I did." Dean quirks an eyebrow at her. They stare at each other for a moment. The horse whickers softly as Dean reaches out with his right hand, softly strokes the side of her neck. Samirah leans into his touch.

"Didn't know it was you I was missing. Used to dream about riding, even before I ever got on a horse."

He can see it now, see the various places, all over the country. Farms. Ranches. Places they holed up in, places where the job was. And at each and every one, Dean hoped, no, prayed, that there were horses nearby.

"At first my Dad would drop us off places, when me and Sammy were too young to hunt." Dean's voice cracks slightly. He breathes through the tightness in his chest, and settles himself. "Even after I started hunting, there were times when we stayed around horses. I'd volunteer to help out. Go to the barn, muck out the stalls. Feed them. That hole inside me got a little smaller every time I did that…" Dean's eyes grow distant as he runs his fingers through the black's thick mane.

"Stayed at this one place…small ranch up in Illinois. We stayed there for about a month. I was just a kid, then. Fifteen years old. Dad got pretty banged up hunting this black dog, so we holed up there until he could travel. Dude that owned the ranch was an old Marine buddy of his. They had about forty head of horses. There was this big grey mare out there in the field. I used to sit on her back every day we were there, turn my face up to the sun, close my eyes, and just trust her to take the right steps. I stayed out there until Sammy came out to get me, sometimes for hours, and she didn't mind. Not one bit."

Samirah lifts her head up. She shivers all over as Dean gently strokes her nose. _Did you sing to her? You used to sing to me._

Dean grins a little. "I did?"

_Yes. Twisted Winding Road._

"I don't…I don't know that one."

_Home At Day's End?_

"I don't know that one either."

_Oh._

Dean sits there for a moment in awkward silence. He stares at a spot on the ground just past his boots, then he gets up and walks a few feet away from the black horse.

_It's alright, _Samirah murmurs softly.

Dean lifts his head and sings, soft and low, at first.

_Leaves are falling all around,  
Its time I was on my way.  
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged  
For such a pleasant stay._

Samirah just stares at him. Dean's voice grows louder, loud and clear and perfect.

_But now it's time for me to go,  
The autumn moon lights my way.  
For now I smell the rain,  
And with it pain,  
And it's headed my way.  
Ah, sometimes I grow so tired,  
But I know I've got one thing I got to do._

He winks at her._ I'm not leaving you. Not now. Not ever._

_Ramble on,  
And now's the time, the time is now  
To sing my song._

He turns and smiles at her, warm and bright, as he changes some of the lyrics of the song, just for her, to let her know he's here, that it's all right.

_I'm goin' round the world,  
I found my girl, I'm on my way.  
I've been this way ten years to the day, ramble on,  
I just found the queen of all my dreams.  
_  
They'll ramble on together. She can see it in his eyes, in his face.

_Got no time for spreadin' roots,  
The time has come and gone.  
And tho our health we drank a thousand times,  
It's time to ramble on._

Samirah circles Dean. She kicks up her heels joyously, rises up on her hind legs and paws at the sky. She comes in close, and he leads with his right hand again, the hand that shouldn't even be there anymore. He gathers the reins up in his right hand, swings himself up, settles down into the saddle.

_Ramble on,  
And now's the time, the time is now  
To sing my song._

Samirah turns on a dime. Dean drops the reins, and she takes the downward slope of the hillside in a smooth, flowing gallop.

_I'm goin' round the world,  
I found my girl, I'm on my way.  
I've been this way ten years to the day, ramble on,  
I just found the queen of all my dreams._

It feels damn good. It feels _right_. Dean accepts it without question. He hasn't felt this good in years. She's his, always and forever. They belong to each other, just like Dean belongs to Sam and John.

Dean feels sorry for the world, sorry for whoever Lillith decides to use him against, but he's made his decision, and he's not turning back.

Moonrise in two hours.

He'll be there at the crossroads.

* * *

Next chapter will be posted on Monday.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: **_I am grateful and humbled for the one hundred reviews this fic has gotten. YESS! Ahem, okay. I wanna thank everyone, and I know I'm a little behind answering your reviews, and I'm a day late with this. I apologize. Also, just as a warning: Dean cusses in the last part, and I've tweaked canon a little. I know you're not surprised.

_**A/N the 2nd:**_ Also, there is character death in this one.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural, or My Little Pony. Go figure.

* * *

_**Chapter 11**_

Ellen comes back to the booth with a satisfied smirk on her face. She glances back at the bar and Lloyd the bartender winks at her.

"Never send a hard leg to do a woman's job, Singer." Ellen smiles and winks back at her new admirer as she passes Dean's photo across the table back to Bobby. "He hasn't seen Dean."

Bobby huffs. "No need for him to get salty with me." He glances over at Lloyd. Lloyd scowls at Bobby, and Bobby gives it right back to him. "All I did was ask a simple question."

"Might be that you're not his type."

"Thank God for that," Bobby grumbles. They're in a good location now, a booth near the back, but with a clear view of the door. "Well, might as well make ourselves comfortable. Get some food, beer. Stretch out and relax. There's a full moon tonight. That's when the show starts."

Twenty minutes later one of the barmaids comes over with two fried chicken dinner specials and two bottles of premium beer.

Ellen frowns a little as she takes a bite out of her drumstick. "So, what kind of pitch are we gonna make to Dean when we see him?"

Bobby takes a sip of beer, savors it before he answers. "I'll pull out all the stops. Remind him what his daddy taught him all these years. Tell him that he's got his whole life ahead of him, and that John and Sam wouldn't want him to sell his soul like that."

"Good pitch. Think he'll go for it?"

"No. Dean doesn't think straight when it comes to his family."

"So what's plan B?"

"We'll hogtie him and drag him kicking and screaming back to my place."

Ellen smiles a little as she raises her glass. "I like the way you think." They clink their glasses together in a mock toast.

* * *

The woman running the fruit stand smiles and says something that Dean doesn't catch at first. He's lost in thought, can't make up his mind about what he wants. He has his dark sunglasses on and he's forgotten about his right hand. Apparently he looks normal enough; no one runs screaming into the road at the sight of him.

Not much traffic on this stretch of the road. Not many people at the fruit stand, either; some grizzled old farmer buying several sacks of green tomatoes, and another couple in a battered old green pick up truck buying a bushel of peaches.

Dean looks at all the fruit, the bananas and the melons, and the smell, color and texture reminds him of Rika. Famine. She was the first Horseman to invite him into her other life. He and Samirah stayed at her farm for a week.

Rika's farm was _huge_. She sent wagonloads of greens, melons, fruits and vegetables out every week during harvest time. The farm is her family's home, the one Rika inherited when her parents died of natural causes years ago. They knew their daughter was special, and they celebrated it. Had something to do with their religion; Gaelen knows that much. Apparently not all families react as badly as Gaelen's did.

On the third day Gaelen helps Rika load up one of the wagons. She has a lot of people who work for her, but that doesn't stop her from doing some of the work herself.

"You're overthinking this, Gaelen. Beings like us…" she shrugs as he takes the box of mangoes from her hands and places it in the wagon. "We just _are_. That's all. Some stay longer than others. Some leave sooner. We all have our place."

"What happened to the one before me?" He follows her back to the house. Samirah follows him up the walk, daintily stepping on the stones in the walkway like a princess. "Why did she leave?"

When she hears that Samirah rolls her eyes.

Rika shrugs. "She just _did_, once day. It was her time to leave. Her time, her choosing."

"Where did she go?" Samirah snorts as she pushes her nose against his left shoulder. Gaelen turns and scowls at her. Samirah droops her ears down and shakes her head at him from side to side.

"No one knows but her," Rika calls out over her shoulder as she disappears into the house. She returns a few seconds later with a large wooden box filled with limes.

Gaelen takes the box from her, walks over to the wagon and loads the box in. "How long have you been doing this?"

"For a while."

"And why do—" Gaelen hushes himself when Rika reaches out and presses her finger against his lips. She looks at Samirah and smiles. "Does he ask this many questions when the two of you ride together?"

_He might. Half the time I pretend I don't hear him._

_Hah. Funny. _

"It's your lot in life to question. I understand that. I do. Can't give you the answers you need and want." Rika shrugs apologetically. "I wish I could. You have to have faith, Gaelen. That's all. Faith that somehow things will all work out."

The woman behind the wooden counter clears her throat again, and the sound finally draws Dean's attention, draws him back to present day.

"Huh?"

"I said, nice horse." the woman says again. She has a pleasant enough face, framed by chin-length, light brown hair, a splash of freckles across her nose. She smiles and nods at something behind Dean's back.

Nice…_horse?_

Dean suddenly remembers that there were two young kids around when he rode up to the stand, a boy and a girl dressed in worn t shirts, faded overalls and tennis shoes, about five and eight. They were making a lot of noise then, kids just being kids. Now they're quiet.

_Too_ quiet.

And now he remembers how their eyes lit up when they saw Samirah.

_Damn_. He should have thought about what he was doing. Samirah's not safe around normal humans.

She's killed before, without hesitation, and that was just the little bit he knew about her recently. Not long ago a rancher tried to capture her with ropes and dogs; after she killed the dogs and the two hired hands she followed the rancher home, broke into his house and stomped him flat. Dean saw the crime scene photos. The coroner had to use a sponge to recover what was left of the body.

Dean, Bobby and John showed up to hunt Samirah not long after that.

_Stupid. Fucking stupid!_

"Uh…" Dean doesn't know what he's going to see when he turns around, and his heart actually lurches in his chest. The woman's not screaming, not yet, anyway, but that doesn't mean anything. Samirah's lethal, preternaturally fast, and terrifying.

_Oh God. No. Please…_

He doesn't want to look, but he can't help himself. Dean turns around quickly.

Then he stops and just stares.

Samirah stands very quietly as the two kids solemnly feed her one apple slice after another. Her eyes are normal, a deep liquid brownish gold. She swings her tail lazily from side to side as the little girl reaches up, pats her broad, well-muscled shoulder.

"You're a big good boy, aren't 'cha?" the little girl coos. "My little pony."

_Boy?_ Samirah grumbles. She lays her ears back a little. The little girl (_Molly_, Dean thinks to himself) holds out her hand, palm flat. Samirah eyes the apple slice laying on the girl's hand and gently pulls the fruit into her mouth.

"Nice horsey," the little boy (_Evan_) chirps. Samirah doesn't flinch, not even when he pats her nose. She sees Dean staring at her and snorts. _What? _

"Uh, yeah. That's my girl." Dean smiles as he turns back around. "Gentle as a lamb. Her name's Sammy."

_Sammy? Do I look like a Sammy to you?_

_You do now, _Dean snarks. Samirah huffs and lowers her head to daintily nibble at another slice of apple from the five year old. The black horse gently lips at the kid's fingers, and the little boy giggles.

"Cute kids." Not much else he _could_ say. _Thank God my horse didn't eat your kids?_ Yeah, that'll go over_ real_ well. No. Just…no. "My name's Dean. What's yours?"

"Karen."

"Hi, Karen. Nice to meet you."

Karen bags up a pound each of bing cherries, nectarines, strawberries and tangerines. She puts it all in one of those cheap canvas bags with a handle. Her eyes widen when Dean hands her a fifty dollar bill. "I…I don't have change for this."

"No problem," The smile Dean gives her is bright and blinding as he hefts the sack of fruit in his left hand. "Keep the change."

"That's – that's thirty eight dollars," Karen stammers.

"Yeah, it is." Dean turns and whistles. Samirah whickers softly as she carefully steps around the little boy and girl.

The little boy waves. "Bye bye horsey."

Dean mounts up and turns Samirah back in the opposite direction, away from the fruit stand, towards the woods. He shifts the bag, cradles it against his left side. His right hand glows a little more now, a faint golden shimmer that catches the sunlight, highlights the pores of his skin.

""That was just so gosh darn cute!" Dean gushes.

Samirah rumbles to herself. _Cute? I've been called lots of things. Cute does not happen to be one of them. _

"My big bad demon Arabian." Dean grins. "Thought you ate humans for breakfast."

_I do, _Samirah drawls lazily._ Not much meat on the little ones, though. _

He can't tell if she's joking or not._ "_We have to work on that sense of humor, Sammy."

_No problem, Deanie. _

The little boy and his sister wave as Dean and the black ride off. Karen looks a little dazed as she stares at the fifty dollar bill in her hand.

She was worried; Dean could feel it. Not much traffic on that stretch of the road, and she hadn't made much money today. The fifty was all the money Dean had left on him, and in a couple of hours money won't matter to him anyway.

He won't need it where he's going.

* * *

Dining room table's set for six people. Trouble is, there's only John and Sam, and no food anywhere in the house.

Sam scowls at the empty plate on the place setting in front of him. Neither one of them is hungry, or thirsty, but all 'show and no go' is beginning to piss both of them off.

"Damn shame. "John picks up one of wine glasses in his hand, eyes the fake red wine plastic insert in the glass with regret. Jack and Jose are more to John's taste, but he's flexible.

"What kind of a fiend are we dealing with here?" He gently wiggles the plastic goblet in his hand from side to side, as though he could turn the plastic into real wine.

Sam's got that intense, faraway look that he gets whenever he's analyzing the situation. John doesn't want to distract him.

"Uriel, now…that's the name of one of the angels of the Lord. A very powerful one. He likes to smite people. Places. Rumor is he did Sodom and Gomorrah singlehandedly."

"Then why the hell is he even here?" John growls. "Who'd be that interested in _us_? And why now?"

Sam frowns and shakes his head. "Haven't figured that part out yet."

"Let me know when you do." John growls as he gets to his feet. He feels like hitting something, and that bay window in the living room is looking mighty inviting. "If Kojak shows up with Dean, I'm not gonna care what kind of juice he has going for him. I'm kickin' that fugly ass of his."

* * *

The tangerines go first. They're liquid sunshine, best damn fruit Dean's tasted in this life, at least. He peels a few for Samirah and tries not to laugh at the slightly goofy expression on her face as she eats the fruit out of his hand. Her ears flop over to either side, and her face relaxes. Her eyes look almost normal now, and it dawns on Dean that she looks happy. Contented and happy. Because of him.

Dean spreads out one of the brown paper bags on the ground. He pulls the skin off four more tangerines, grabs a handful of strawberries and puts that down on top of the paper bag. Samirah lowers her head and doesn't waste any time fussing. She eats slowly and carefully, with her eyes half closed, and the sound she makes is a lot like a cat purring.

A very _big_ cat purring.

Dean pushes his back against the tree trunk, digs his hand into the sack for a handful of Bing cherries. They're plump, ripe, incredibly juicy. He spits the pits out, one at a time, tries to see how far he can get.

Huh. Six and a half feet. That's a personal best.

Dean's mind wanders as he eats. He's barely aware of the sun overhead, but he knows the clock's ticking. Shadows are getting longer all around. Two hours to go.

The wind picks up, rustles the branches of the tree overhead. Sounds like wings flapping. Dean quiets himself, as he senses something.

Samirah freezes in mid-chew. _Overgrown pigeons,_ she thinks roughly. She lifts her head, snarling, rumbling.

"Hello, Dean."

The man standing five feet away is totally out of place here. He's wearing an expensive looking dark brown business suit, for one thing. He's about John Winchester's age, and as soon as Dean lays eyes on him he can see faint shadows, massive wings in the air around him.

"I am the angel Zachariah."

Dean's eyes narrow dangerously. He rests his head back against the tree trunk just as Samirah growls, her eyes focused on the angel and his vessel. Dean shakes his head once, sharply, and the black horse settles down.

"I came to see if you would reconsider. You don't have to make the deal with Lillith, Dean."

"I don't?"

"No. There is a plan to all of this."

"A plan?" Dean bares his teeth in a mirthless chuckle. "A plan. This is_ it_? This is your pitch, huh?" He gets to his feet in one smooth motion, wipes his hands clean on the thighs of his blue jeans. "My mom used to tell me that you feathered fucks were watching over me."

Zachariah frowns at little at Dean's language. "We were. We still are."

"Uh huh." Dean nods. "You wanna enlighten me, then? Let me in on the grand scheme of things?" The air around Dean is suddenly charged with unseen energy as he moves towards the man. It travels down Dean's body in one long flowing stroke, rustles the thick grass at his feet.

Samirah just stands there, watching, with her head down slightly, those reddish gold eyes of hers softly glowing.

"Where were you the night my mom died, huh? What happened? Was her dying that night part of your fucking precious plan?"

"There's…there's no need to get upset---"

"No need?" Dean smiles, bright and feral. "Where the hell were you when my brother and father died?"

The scars around Dean's right eye glow, pale and golden. His right eye shimmers with the same spark. It matches the way his right hand glows now, soft and shifting, shadows and sunlight.

Zachariah's eyes widen slightly. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"You're not. Huh. So, what now? I'm supposed to back off, like a good little boy? Heaven's fucked up my family, killed them all. I'm the last and the least, but you want me to get with the program now, and do things your way? And after it's all over, and Heaven's grand plan is done, my brother and my dad are still gonna be dead. Right? My mom is still dead. My whole family, gone. And for what?" Dean cocks his head to one side. "Did I miss anything, here?"

"I'm sorry for your losses. I am." Zachariah says softly. Dean's shoulders slump slightly. "There is a plan, Dean, a purpose to all of this."

Dean stares down at his right hand, sees that pale golden light twist and flow underneath his ghost skin.

"_Back in 1835, when Halley's Comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun - a special gun." _

Dean blinks. It's Dad's voice.

"_He made it for a hunter - a man like us, only on horseback. The story goes he made thirteen bullets."_

Dean stares at the ground, and the golden flame in his right hand and his right eye softens a little.

"_This hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. Somehow, Daniel got his hands on it." _

_My mom,_ Dean thinks to himself. He sees Mary Winchester, pale and bleeding, pinned to the ceiling above Sammy's crib. She looked so sad. She looked down and saw him standing there, and he was so small and helpless, just a damn kid, and she looked down and mouthed the words: _I'm sorry…  
_  
Zachariah's still talking, low and soothing, but Dean doesn't hear the words. He can't. He sees John and Sam in the Devil's Gate graveyard up in Wyoming, sees the flames roll over them, as that yellow eyed bastard stands there laughing.

Dean remembers falling to his knees, and he can't feel his right hand anymore. Just the ghostly after-image of the explosion as the Colt blew up in his hand. He sees only shredded flesh, dark blood and white bone of his right stump, as the energy of the Colt sears his skin. It doesn't hurt, nothing could match the sight of John and Sam dying, the way his nose fills up with the sweet smoky smell of their death…

A single tear rolls out of Dean's right eye, down his right cheekbone. Zachariah steps within arms' length of Dean.

Dean reaches out then. His right hand is hooked into a claw, and it's so damn easy. Zachariah yelps a little in surprise, and the sound actually makes Dean smile a little as his right hand slides smoothly around the man's throat. Dean feels rageful. He feels eternal. He pours his rage into Zachariah and his vessel, watches as it flows into the skin and the flesh. The angel beats his wings frantically trying to escape, and he can't.

Dean smiles in satisfaction. Angels watching over him be damned. That was _all _they were doing, watching.

Dean's right eye and his right hand blaze with a golden light that eclipses the sun. Zachariah is on his tiptoes now, body arched backwards in shock. His throat jerks uselessly underneath the palm of Dean's ghost hand. Zachariah's mouth stretches wide, eyes bulging, filled with a peculiar pale light that glazes his skin transparent. His heart beats and jumps in place inside the prison of his vessel's ribcage, as angel and vessel alike burn from the inside out.

"_They say - they say this gun can kill anything."_

Including angels.

* * *

Next chapter: Sunday. Will post sooner if RL permits.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 12**_

Yellow Eye's dead. Dean killed him.

John doesn't know _how_ he knows that; he just does. The last time he saw his eldest son Dean stood there frozen, but defiant, with Samuel Colt's special gun gripped tight in his right hand. If anyone could have broken free and done the job, John knows Dean would have.

Besides, the present situation Sam and John find themselves in just isn't Azazel's style. There's no blood, no screaming, no painful physical torture. Just constant boredom in this damn freaky dollhouse, and that's all a little too subtle for Azazel.

Uriel shows up just about anywhere, anytime. In the living room, the kitchen, anywhere at all. There's no way to tell what day, or what the real time is. Time sense is all screwed to hell; has been from the moment John and Sam died.

Once Uriel fades in sitting at the dining room table. Sam turns to him, smirking wickedly. "So. How was Sodom and Gomorrah?"

"I'm not here to answer your questions, boy," Uriel snaps irritably. He seems a little more unsettled than he was before. It's nice to know that they can get a rise out of him.

Dean would have liked that.

Dad's here, twenty four seven, and that takes some getting used to. They hadn't been on good terms for most of Sam's life, and Sam knows that's partly his fault. He pushed, and John pushed back, about nearly everything, from diner food to motel rooms. Sam remembers the times he wanted Dean to take his side, not Dad's, and Dean wouldn't take either side.

Sam gets it now. Damn shame he couldn't see it when he was alive, but now that he's dead, Sam gets it. Dean just wanted peace. They were all that was left, all he had left.

Funny thing --- funny as in _ironic_, not funny _hah-hah_ --- John and Sam have been together twenty four seven, like they are right now, in the den, and they haven't had one argument since they died.

Not one.

John's journal disappeared once Uriel showed up in the graveyard. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to realize what probably happened to it. It might be hidden away in the library, might not. This is just something else to occupy their time.

Sam and John get pretty damn bored, pretty damn quickly.

John pulls the first book off the shelf, stares at the title on the leather binding, and huffs.

"What?"

"Majestic Interlude," John says flatly. He flips through the burgundy leather bound book, rolls his eyes, and tosses it to Sam.

Sam tries not to look _too_ interested as he scans through it. _Huh._

Heaving bosoms, deep-chested, broad shouldered Fabio-look-alikes with long hair and smoldering eyes.

It's a damn romance novel.

That was Jess' one weakness. She'd try to hide it, but she was a fanatic for stuff like that. Sam caught her reading when she should have been studying. She carried a thick romance novel in her backpack all the time. She'd read one, finish it, and another would take its place.

That time Sam was home with the flu? He laid on the couch and read _Destiny's Fortune_, another bodice ripper, from cover to cover while Jess was in class.

John goes through the shelves, pulls out one book after another. He looks at the title on the spine, flips through the first five books, then shrugs to himself. _Hell with it._

It's the same damn book, over and over and over again.

Maybe this _is_ Hell after all.

Another book joins the others carelessly tossed onto the table, and John glances up, just past Sam's right shoulder. Sam sees something dark flicker in his father's eyes.

_We got company, kiddo. _

Uriel again, probably.

And then again, maybe not.

Sam turns around.

It's a woman. Tall, slender, with a pleasant enough face framed by shoulder-length brown hair. She has on tight fitting jeans, a purple t shirt and a black leather jacket. Her right arm is withered, sunken. Neither John nor Sam startle at her sudden appearance, and that seems to disappoint her.

"Just want to see what all the commotion is about." She stares hungrily at Sam, then John. It's like she's staring straight through their clothes. _Jesus._

"Take a picture, sweetheart. It'll last longer," John rumbles. He doesn't miss a beat. Another book joins the pile on the table.

"I've heard so much about you other Winchester men." Her voice lowers. She's trying for sultry, but somehow comes off as whiny. "I know your son," the brunette says hopefully, as though that should mean something to either one of them.

It doesn't. Sam looks blank. John shrugs.

She rolls her eyes at Sam. "_Not you_. The green-eyed one. Gaelen."

"Who?" John rumbles.

That pisses her off. Sam can see it in her eyes.

John sees it, and just doesn't give a damn. She opens her mouth (no doubt to say something smartass) just as Uriel appears in the doorway. His eyes blaze angrily at the sight of her.

"You shouldn't be _here_, filth. I may have to work with you, but I will _not_ tolerate your interference."

The brunette smiles lazily. She blinks, and her eyes go pitch black as she steps away from the table and heads for the door. "There's only one reason I'm tolerating _you_, big boy. I'd like to be on the winning side for once."

She turns and winks at John and Sam. Uriel huffs angrily and barely steps aside.

"What's your name, princess?" John drawls softly.

"You can call me Ruby."

* * *

Lightning splits the darkness overhead. Thunder rolls. Samirah snorts in derision. She's unimpressed, to say the least. You call _that_ wild weather? _Please_.

_Hmph. Amateurs,_ she mutters to herself.

She steps up behind Dean, cocks her head to one side as she studies his body language, his stance.

He's _Gaelen_ now. The other one, _Dean_, he's charming and cute and boyish. Damaged somehow by that family of his. The way Dean stands there now, shoulders back, feet apart, head cocked to one side, somehow eternal and impervious, his eyes narrowed…that's _Gaelen_. _Her _Gaelen.

Never mind that his right hand glows, slowly softening back into pale gold, never mind that his right eye has the same terrible glint, instead of bright copper. His image shifts, from battered leather coat and worn jeans to black cassock and slim pants, black boots, covered by that long, hooded black leather coat.

Samirah stands close to Dean, lightly rests her throatlatch on the top of his shoulder.

Dean cocks his head slightly, leans into the side of Samirah's head as he looks from his ghost hand to the fallen angel. Zachariah lies stretched out on the ground, and the green grass around his lifeless body is burned with the imprint of massive black wings.

_Huh. That's something new,_ Samirah rumbles softly. Dean's lifeline in the palm of his hand glows faintly, as do the whorls and spirals of his fingertips. Dean blinks and that golden glint in his right eye winks completely out. His eyes are green again, slightly bloodshot. He flexes his fingers, stares at the way the glow in his hand flares up for a moment.

"I'm not sorry I wasted him. Not one damn bit." There's a certain vibration in Dean's voice that Samirah knows only too well. Dean shakes his head, and his eyes flash copper for a brief second. He does a perfect imitation of Zachariah's voice: "_There is a plan, Dean_."

"They let my family die. My mom and my dad and my brother." Dean's voice gets husky, just on the verge of cracking. "What the hell kind of fucked up plan is_ that_? But…"

_But what?_

"This isn't what you signed up for. I know that. If you wanna leave," he glances up at the sky overhead and scowls, just a little. "I'll understand."

_I'm not going anywhere. _Samirah backs up a little, steps lightly around to face him. She thrusts her large head into his hands without hesitation. Dean falters a little, unwilling at first to touch her with his right hand, but only for a second. His right hand is safe now. It does only what he tells it to; he realizes that now.

_Did that before, _the black horse rumbles as she closes her eyes. _Never works out. _She pushes her velvet soft nose against his shoulder. Dean gently cards her long, thick forelock with his fingers. _Every time I leave you alone you get in trouble._

Dean's surprised enough to laugh, a short, sharp bark of laughter. "You're here with me _now_. So what do you call _this_?"

_Eh._ Samirah tilts her head to one side, eyes the fallen angel sprawled silent on the ground. _One less overgrown pigeon? _

"Good point," Dean murmurs to himself. He moves over, gathers up the reins and swings into the saddle. "It's just you and me now. And my dad and my brother."

Samirah lays her ears back.

"What?"

_You were my Gaelen first, long before you were ever their Dean. Don't like sharing you with them, but I will. Even though your father hunted me._

They move down the hillside in a smooth and easy walk. "That won't happen again. You and Dad just got off on the wrong foot."

_Yeah. Right._

Dean turns his face up to the night sky, smiles a little bit as he imagines John and Sam's reaction when they see him riding Samirah for the first time. "Dad's okay. So is Sammy."

Samirah huffs, unconvinced._ If you say so._

"Who took my place when I was gone?"

_I don't know. We come in pairs, and that's the way we leave. I left after you did. _

"Has anyone ever tried to separate us?"

_Once. _

"Tell me."

Samirah's voice rumbles inside Dean's head, and the memory comes flooding back.

* * *

Big job this time. Thousands of souls, and Gaelen's all business. War has raged all over the countryside, courtesy of Tiesen and his big red stallion, Ajani. Gaelen and Samirah are never far behind.

By the time they make their final sweep, it's a mercy, and everyone knows it.

Reapers all over the place, conducting souls to their final passage, and Gaelen never sees Tessa in any of the groups. It's a big, wide world; he knows that. She's probably reaping somewhere else.

Would have been nice to see her just once, though.

_Where to now?_

Gaelen shrugs. "Heard about this new place. Australia. Wide open spaces. It's somewhere we haven't been before."

Samirah nods. _Do they have lakes and rivers there? I want to swim this time._

"You turning into a seahorse now, huh?"

Samirah pricks her ears. _Water feels good. I like swimming. And fish._

Gaelen frowns. "To swim with?"

_No. To eat, you idiot._

"Funny."

Samirah snorts.

"Australia's bordered by the ocean on all sides. I think we can find a beach for you to play on."

Samirah reaches the edge of the cliff and leaps over. Gaelen keeps his saddle, perfect as always, and the big black lands lightly on all fours at the base of the cliff in the fields below. She moves off in a slow, leisurely trot. They get like this sometimes, after a long, sustained job. Just want to breathe and move a little, and just _be_. No death, no destruction. It's what they were created for, but sometimes that all gets to be a little much.

Gaelen catches a movement in the tall grass twenty yards out and to the left. Samirah's ears flick back and forth as she stops and looks in that direction, her large eyes flaring reddish gold.

"Gaelen," Tessa smiles. "I missed you." She steps out into the open, dressed completely in white, from head to toe. That full white skirt she wears sweeps the ground. She throws back the hood of her white cloak, shakes her long brunette hair out so that it flows down to her shoulders.

"Hey." Gaelen's smile is just as bright. "Didn't you were on this job."

"I wasn't." Tessa steps to Samirah's side, puts her hand up and gently strokes the black's forelock. "Hello, girl." Samirah nickers softly. "I was on a reap nearby. Finished early, and thought I'd come over to help. They didn't need me after all."

"Oh."

"You mind giving a girl a lift?"

"Not at all." Gaelen drops the reins, puts one hand out. "Front or back, m'lady?"

"Front. I want to see your face."

He takes her by the hand, swings her up onto the saddle in front of him.

It all goes to hell moments later.

* * *

It doesn't hurt. Not at first, anyway. Gaelen feels something slam hard against his stomach, and he sits there in the saddle, blinking stupidly.

Tessa sits side saddle in front of him, her head resting on his chest. She tightens one arm around his waist. He can feel her slim fingers spread wide over the small of his back.

There it is again. A stinging sensation frigid cold, that rips through him now, from his belly all the way up to his chest.

Gaelen shivers underneath the strong sunlight. He's freezing from the inside out. White wisps of vapor flow out of throat as he opens his mouth to say something.

_Anything_.

Later on he never could remember _what_.

Tessa raises her head up, smiles at Gaelen.

Her hair is still shoulder length, still brunette, but her features change.

Gaelen's eyes widen in shock and disbelief. She's _not _Tessa.

"I have many names," the woman smiles as she slips the knife in between his ribs.

The blades are cursed. He's never felt anything like this before. He breathes in and out, and the air inside him is so cold it makes his throat ache.

"You can call me Ruby," she whispers. Gaelen's body jerks with the next knife thrust, deep inside his left shoulder blade. Just as quickly she pulls another blade from under her cloak and plunges it deep into Samirah's neck and withers.

He hears Samirah shriek, in pain and rage, sees the long blades in the woman's hands, slick with ice.

Gaelen doesn't remember falling. He comes back to himself on his knees on the ground. The earth around him is frozen, rimmed with ice and frost.

The only thing he sees is Samirah.

She's on her knees, forelegs folded underneath her. Her forehead is pressed to the ground, her long, thick mane thrown carelessly about her shoulders. She's shaking, trembling, as she tries to struggle back onto her feet.

Her neck and withers are turning white.

_....gnnuh...Gaelen..._

Another knife strike, this time in the small of Gaelen's back. He ignores the pain, ignores the cold, as he scrambles forward on his hands and knees.

Another figure in white, a man this time, walks out of the tall grass towards the black horse. Sunlight glints off the blade in his hand as he raises it.

Gaelen lunges forward on his hands and knees

..._nuh...no..._

as Samirah screams out again.

Ruby stabs Gaelen in the side and neck. Layers of glistening white ice creep outward from the stab wounds. His black clothes are coated with the stuff.

Thick blue ice films over his eyes like cataracts. He can't speak, can't think. He sees shadows moving around Samirah, hears her bellow and shriek as they cut her. Gaelen crawls forward on his belly, and Ruby laughs as she stabs him, over and over again.

* * *

Back in the present Samirah slows down and finally stops in the middle of the field.

Dean doesn't even notice.

He sits frozen in the saddle, staring blankly into space. His green eyes spark bright copper as his head fills with images of cursed blades, ice and pain and cold.

Samirah stands quietly, with her neck bowed. She lays her ears back as Dean moans softly to himself. She didn't want to tell him. Wouldn't have, but he asked.

There's more of her Gaelen in Dean now. Much more. She'll share him with the father and the brother. No way to get around that.

But if they push, she'll push _back_.

Never was a doubt of _that_, either.

She has patience. Not with everyone and everything, but especially with him. She can stand here and wait as Dean goes through the memory, takes it all in.

She'll be here when he comes back to himself.

Moonrise is in one hour. Plenty of time to get to the crossroads.

_And if another overgrown pigeon shows up,_ Samirah nickers softly to herself, _I know a trick or two._

* * *

_**A/N:**_ This turned out to be a really, really long chapter, and rather than post it all at once I decided to break it up in two. Will post the other half Wednesday.


	13. Chapter 13

_**A/N:**_ Well, it's Wednesday, so here we go. I know you guys love me, but you fussed at me about cutting the other chapter short. I just didn't think you would read a twenty two page chapter. I'm just sayin'. Also: this one contains some fairly graphic descriptions of violence.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 13**_

Five more demons walk out of the tall grass. Black eyed, male, dressed in icy white robes. Two of them join the first one at Samirah's head.

Ruby circles Gaelen. She makes mystical passes in the air with the two bone-handled blade she holds, one in each hand. He sees only white shadows moving in the dimness all around him. He's coated with ice, weighed down and blinded by it, on his knees like some pissant supplicant. The cold throbs inside him, keeps perfect time with his racing, skittering heartbeat.

The other three demons join Ruby, range themselves in a circle around Gaelen. The cold inside him is so frigid it makes his throat ache. He breathes short, ragged plumes of thick white vapor into the air,

"Heard a lot about you, Gaelen." Ruby leans down, whispers in his left ear. "You high and mighty horsemen." He can't see her smile, but he feels it when she thrusts the knife blade deep inside his upper chest, on his left side. Ruby grips the white bone blade hard and twists.

Gaelen bites back the scream that rises in his throat.

His body goes haywire, muscles and nerve endings jittering wildly out of control. He takes multiple hits about his head and shoulders. He can't tell who stabs him next. Blades scrape against bone, sends waves of red hot pain that ebbs and flows, mingles with the icy cold, sweeps over him like a river overflowing its banks.

"And you know what?" Ruby smirks. Gaelen can't see it, but she smirks. _I've got a secret, _that smirk says _and I'm gonna let you in on it._ "So far I'm really, _really _disappointed." She steps back, nods, and the others move in, blades raised and ready.

They work in complete silence.

Ruby's white skirts sweep the grass and dirt around as the bitch steps in close again. Another slash with the blades, and cold fire rakes deep into the muscles of Gaelen's right side, from the top of his shoulder, down to his thigh.

"You're born in pairs, is that right?"

Samirah's stabbed repeatedly in her hindquarters, her neck and shoulders, along with several deep slashes across her nose and muzzle.

…_.gnnuh….Gaelen…_Samirah breathes, slow and ragged.

"Lore says that if _you're _dead, the horse is riderless and will wander off, harmless, but we like to be thorough."

The tip of one knife blade drags across Gaelen's left cheek, splitting his skin open down to the bone, exposing his teeth, encrusting half his face in thick blue ice.

…_.can't…can't get up… _Samirah rumbles inside Gaelen's head. Her muzzle is completely white now, as is the skin around her eyes, her neck and her croup, She kicks out at her attackers with her forelegs, weakly.

One demon laughs and darts in, plunges his blade deep into her jowl.

Ruby stabs Gaelen in his right thigh.

"Doesn't matter if you survive this. We'll just come back."

_Stay with me, Samirah. _

Another slash with the knife, right across the small of Gaelen's back.

_Please…stay with me…_

"If not me, then it'll just be someone else." Ruby shrugs carelessly, slashes out with her left blade.

_Gaelen, _Samirah moans again.

More stab wounds in his shoulders and back.

"We are Legion, Horseman." Ruby steps in, sinks one of the knives deep into Gaelen's left shoulder blade.

"And if this doesn't work, we'll have a new toy for you and your girl there each and every time. And maybe, just maybe, something for your three friends, too."

Ruby steps in close, right at Gaelen's shoulder. "Old yellow eyes thinks we need a clean slate with you folks."

Ruby and the others move in, slashing and stabbing at whatever part of Gaelen they can reach.

…_Samirah…I'm… _

The reddish gold glow in Samirah's eyes flickers, dims.

…_I'm sorry… _Gaelen reaches out blindly, with his right hand. His fingers brush against Ruby's elbow, and the flesh of her arm shrivels and withers, from her fingertips to the top of her shoulder.

"Bastard!" Ruby hisses. She slashes at Gaelen with her left knife hand. The knife stroke pierces his throat, but he barely feels it. He's completely covered in ice now, locked into place, a beautiful ruin of a statue.

Ruby backpedals, staring at her damaged arm in disgust. "Damn it! I went to all that trouble preparing this flesh, and now you've ruined it."

The others laugh. Better her than them.

"Finish them," Ruby snarls. Her vessel's mouth stretches open impossibly wide, and she comes boiling out in a huge coil of thick black smoke that surges upwards into the bright sky.

The woman Ruby leaves behind drops to the ground, lifeless. Her features and her body shift back to normal as she dies. She's older, blonde and heavyset, but Gaelen never sees it.

He never sees the five demons die moments later, in a blaze of fiery red.

* * *

_Samirah…_

He lashes out with his right hand again.

…_sorry…_

It's desperate and it's weak, too damn little, too damn late, but it's all he can do, and he hates himself even more than he did before. Samirah deserves better than _this._

…'_m so sorry… _

Pale white and slightly darker shadows all around, same as before, but when he feels those strong fingers grip his right wrist Gaelen reacts instantly, moving and twisting.

"Gaelen?"

He can't see the bastards, but he can feel them all around him. He continues to struggle, and they continue to hold him, by the left wrist now, too, so he kicks out with his legs.

At least, he tries to. Nothing works below the waist. He nearly strangles himself pulling air into his lungs. His throat's raw. He gasps and pants, lashes out some more with his arms.

Pathetic.

"Gaelen?"

_Nothing._

"Gaelen, stop it!"

He smiles grimly at that one. _Like hell he will._

His fingers curl into a fist. Solid flesh underneath his knuckles as he lashes out, a good solid hit. Not much, but it'll do for a start.

_Gaelen?_ Samirah mutters softly. _Stop that._

_Wha-what?_

_Stop that, _the black horse says sleepily. _You're rocking the sling. _

_Rocking the ---_

_Sling. You big dummy._

_Oh. _Gaelen freezes in place.

Where ever _here_ is, it's soft, and dry. No cold, or wet. He listens to his own breathing, slow and steady. Gaelen blinks. He stares at the two faces floating above him and when his vision clears he frowns just a little.

What the hell is Tiesen doing here? Tiesen was headed home in the opposite direction the last time he saw him.

Gaelen turns his head slightly, stares at the other face. He scowls even more.

Tessa.

He asks the question with his eyes. _You're not here to reap---_

"No." Tessa shakes her head sadly. She runs her fingers through his hair, kisses his forehead. "We've been worried about you. Chale and Rika will be here soon."

"Didn't think you were gonna wake up," Tiesen says softly. He holds onto Gaelen's wrists tight. "You gonna be a good little boy now?"

Galen nods, so Tiesen lets go. Galen drops his head back.

"Wh-where?"

"My place. It's okay. We're warded."

"H-how?"

"Ran into one of your playmates on the way home. Apparently there were supposed to be six male demons, instead of five. That one got lost." Tiesen smiles slightly. "He's dead, too."

Gaelen tries to look around, but his body is not cooperating. He's weak, washed out. All he can do is lay there, blink and croak like some damn frog and breathe.

He huffs out a hoarse bark of laughter when he realizes that he's floating in air.

Floating in the damn air, and that's when he notices the wide white canvas straps around and underneath his body, the harness that holds him suspended on his back, securely hooked into those heavy wooden beams above his head.

And Samirah.

She's in a similar rig right next to him. The sling is under her belly; her hooves barely touch the ground.

She looks like hell.

Coat's all rough and dry, and there are still patches of white and gray on her flanks, and her head, around her nose, mouth and eyes. She lazily blinks those long eyelashes of hers at him and sighs. _That's better. Quiet. Quiet is good. _Her eyes are a deep, mellow gold._ Sleep now._

"D-demons," Gaelen croaks hoarsely. "What about---" He can't lower his voice to a whisper. Samirah twitches her ears, annoyed, but she keeps her eyes closed and her breathing deepens as it evens out.

Tiesen's brown eyes glow bright as new pennies. "Dead. All five of them. The witch escaped. For now, anyway."

Tessa leans down, kisses Gaelen gently on the lips and forehead. "I thought I lost you," she whispers quietly.

"Sleep, brother. You're safe now. And so is your girl." Tiesen's voice goes from warm to firm in an instant. "Get some rest, Gaelen. It's over."

_No, it's not,_ Gaelen thinks to himself, but he reaches out with his right hand, fingers spread out on Samirah's chest. He feels the beating of her great heart through his skin, listens to Samirah's breathing, and it's the sweetest sound he's ever heard as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Rika snaps, two nights later.

Gaelen sways, unsteady on his feet. He's so pale all the freckles on his face stand out like brown sugar on a white tablecloth underneath the moonlight. Should have known it wasn't going to be _that_ easy. His brothers and sister always were light sleepers._ Too_ light.

If _she's _awake, the others won't be far behind.

Rika's looking at him like he's the world's biggest idiot. Probably is. "What are you doing? You shouldn't be on your feet just yet. It's only been three days."

Gaelen looks down at her, and she looks just so damn young and fragile like that. Nobody would guess that she was Famine, nobody would guess that she's killed millions, and it's all part of the eternal cycle.

"Don't wake her," Gaelen whispers.

"Who?"

"Samirah."

"She's not gonna like this." Rika starts forward. She tries to grab him by the arm and Gaelen steps back. Rika's eyes widen as he shakes her hand off.

"I'm leaving."

"You…what?"

"I'm leaving."

Chale and Tiesen walk up next to Rika, dressed and fully awake.

_Damn._ Gaelen glances nervously at the house down at the bottom of the hill, and he prays to whatever gods are listening that Samirah does _not_ wake up.

"How many times do I have to say this? That yellow-eyed bastard is after us now. After _me._ The bitch that did this, she's working for him. She cloaked herself, made us think she was Tessa. I gotta do this." He steps back, away from them. The road is at his back. He can feel it. Isolated and desolate, just what he thinks he deserves. "No sense in the rest of you suffering for what I did."

Tiesen scowls. "Samirah's not gonna like this."

"I don't give a damn. Samirah's staying with you."

"What? You can't leave her like that. You're bonded."

"She can't come with me. Didn't you hear a damn thing I just said? They'll follow me when I leave. If I stay here, this will happen again. Not only to me, but the rest of you."

"Gaelen?" Rika crosses her arms in front of her. She seems smaller somehow. The eternal glow in her eyes dims, just a little. "What are you going to do?"

"Do? I'm going to hunt Azazel down and kill the son of a bitch."

"We can do something to stop this," Chale says roughly. "Rain our wrath down on him and his kind."

"How?" Gaelen snaps roughly. They can hate him for this.

They can _all _hate him for this.

"Tell me how you're going to track him down, Tiesen. Tell me. He jumps from one body after another. He's not afraid of us. Don't you get it? If he was, none of this would have happened in the first place. They won't stop. They'll keep coming. Azazel is after _me_, not you. Samirah almost died because of me. They'll keep coming, and they won't stop._ Ever_. Not unless I'm gone."

Gaelen takes a breath, then a step backwards. They don't move. They don't try to stop him, and something inside him loosens up, just a little. Chale stares at the ground. Rika hugs herself. Only Tiesen looks Gaelen directly in the eyes.

"Watch your backs. Take care of her for me, will you?" Gaelen turns towards the road, but he won't say good-bye. He can't.

"You know we will," Tiesen says softly.

Gaelen turns around and starts walking. He doesn't look back.

* * *

Dean comes out of the memory with a jerk. The first thing he does is glance up into the the sky. Thirty minutes to moonrise.

Samirah stands quietly, still as a statue.

"What did you do after I left?" Dean whispers softly.

She shrugs. _I got angry. I did some things…that I'm not proud of. Made the earth move. Swallowed up whole towns and cities. Called down storms and lightning. I couldn't find you. I looked everywhere, and I couldn't find you…_

"I'm sorry."

_Tiesen told me why you left. Rika, Tessa, and Chale did too. I didn't want to listen. Thought you didn't want to be my rider anymore. We could have left together. We could have._

"I didn't…I thought…I didn't want you hurt anymore. Because of_ me_. You can see that, can't you?"

_No. I can't. _Samirah lifts her head up_. What happens to you happens to the both of us. Wouldn't have it any other way. _

_You sure?_

Samirah scoffs._ Lloyd's Bar is that way._

Dean sighs. "Then let's go."

* * *

Half a mile away from the crossroads Dean feels a familiar sizzle at the back of his skull. He's not Peter Parker, not Spiderman, but damned if that isn't what that feels like. Spidey sense.

Sam's gonna have a field day with this, _if _Dean decides to tell him.

He reins Samirah in, and she snorts as she turns around on a dime.

'_bout time he showed up,_ the black mutters.

"You can come out now," Dean calls out, loud and clear. "Could have used your help when that angel showed up."

"Now I _know _you're full of it." This voice says gruffly from the shadows. "You had it under control." Out of the shadows steps a broad, tall man on an equally huge dappled grey horse.

Samirah knickers a greeting to Ishmael as he steps alongside of her. The big grey answers back.

Chale puts out his right hand without hesitation. "'bout damn time you brought your lazy ass back to the fold.

Dude has a grip like the Incredible Hulk. He squeezes tight, and Dean squeezes right back with his left.

Chale's grin gets a little wider.

"So. Bagged yourself a pigeon, huh?" Chale drawls. He grins, wide and easy, eyes sparking copper. Dean's eyes glow in response. "And I thought you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks." He nods towards Dean's right hand. "You'll have to teach me that one."

Dean chuckles a little. He looks down at his right, rubs his phantom fingertips together. Faint golden sparks fly up into the air from the friction. "Believe me, I think you'll wanna pass on this one."

"Well. You folks have some business to conduct, so I won't keep you." Chale pulls his hand back, as Ismael moves away. The big grey horse snorts as he prances in place. "Moonrise in twenty minutes, Gaelen. See you on the other side, my friend. We're gonna show these idiots how it's really done."

Dean has no problem with _that._

* * *

"Surprise, surprise," Dean murmurs softly to himself, moments later.

The parking lot in front of Lloyd's Bar is filled with cars and trucks, but everyone's inside right now. It's just Dean and Samirah.

And one other person, standing nervously at the crossroads as Dean and Samirah ride up. She's not wearing white robes, but he'd know her just the same. He'd know her anywhere.

_We are Legion, Horseman._

Ruby.

She's still got that same, stupid little pinched smirk on her face. She looks the same as she did that bright summer day, the first time he ever laid eyes on her, a lifetime ago. This time around she's wearing a short black leather jacket, a purple t-shirt and slim black blue jeans.

Ruby hugs herself nervously at the sight of horse and rider, and that's when Dean sees that her right arm is withered.

"_Damn it! I went to all that trouble preparing this flesh, and now you've ruined it."_

Samirah rumbles, low and deep, and the night sky answers her back.

_I guess it's true what they say, _Dean thinks as he dismounts.

Samirah's eyes flash red._ What?_

_You can't fix stupid. Always knew that Lassie was wasting her time pulling Timmy out of that damn well over and over again._

_Timmy?_ Samirah's ears twitch._ Who's Lassie?_

_Tell you later._

Ruby starts talking quickly and nervously as soon as Dean's boots touch the ground. "Well, uh, Lillith sent me to keep you company. She'll be a few minutes late. I, uh, I_ know_ you recognize me. Hey, look, I was just a grunt then. Still am. It was a job, you know? Nothing personal."

Dean and Samirah just stand there, quietly, staring at her.

"You marked me." Ruby hugs her right arm to her chest. "No matter what body I jumped into, my right arm is always the same. It's a constant reminder of what I did, and I always hoped that someday I'd have the chance to see both of you again, and tell you that I was really sorry about what I did back then. I was…I was hoping you'd forgive me."

"Sure. I forgive you, sweetheart," Dean says, smiling. His smile is warm and bright. It even reaches his eyes. "But my horse doesn't."

* * *

Ellen glances at her watch. "It's showtime, Bobby. We'd better---"

The ground shakes.

The tremor lasts about forty seconds. The walls of the building shake and rattle. Glasses fall off the bar, shatter and break on the hardwood floor. The lights flicker, but they don't go out.

Ellen sits with her back to the door. Bobby stops and stares at a section of the wall above the front entrance. His eyes are wide, and there's a startled look of fear in them that makes Ellen put her hand on the gun tucked into her waistband.

"What the hell?" Bobby mutters to himself, just as Ellen turns around.

Another tremor, and this time Ellen could swear she hears screaming, shrieking. It doesn't sound human. It sounds like…like a horse.

The wall over the door bows inward, in the spread-eagled shape of a human body.

The lights in Lloyd's Bar go out.

"Son of a bitch," Bobby snarls. He pulls his shotgun out of his duffel, holds it close down by his side as he moves towards the door. There's enough light from outside to see the parking lot. It draws Bobby like iron filings to a magnet, and he's outside in another second.

Most of the patrons scatter. The smart ones head for the rear exit, which makes Ellen wonder if they haven't seen this kind of thing before. The others just huddle in corners, or at their tables, eyes wide with fear in the gloom.

* * *

Bobby sees the horse first.

It's huge. A monstrous black animal, reddish gold eyes, snorting white steam. It bares its teeth as it lunges at this woman. Bobby's never seen her before.

The horse picks the woman up by her neck, not the collar of her black leather jacket, but her neck. It sinks those wide white teeth into her flesh and shakes its head from side to side. Bones break and snap like brittle twigs.

The horse steps back, snaps its head up, opens its mouth, and the woman's body flies up into the air.

Bobby sees her eyes roll up into her head, white at first.

Then pitch black.

"My God," Bobby whispers.

The woman's body hits the ground, and the horse, all twenty one hundred pounds of it, is right on top of her, stomping her, slashing at her with hooves and bared white teeth. The ground is already soaked with blood and body fluids, and the horse's hooves glow like smoldering embers as it kicks and tramples her. Burn marks in the shape of hoofprints appear on the victim's clothes and her bruised, bloodied skin. Blood boils to vapor, bones splinter and collapse, flesh and fabric burn.

Wisps of black smoke puff out of the body every time the horse stomps her. The woman's mouth is open, wide and slack. Black smoke puffs out of her mouth, from the rips in her skin.

Smoke even comes out of her ears, her nose and her tear ducts.

It's the damndest thing Bobby has _ever _seen. He knows he's too late, but he raises his shotgun anyway, aiming for the critter's head, that space right between its eyes. It's a fool's trick, damn stupid. He doesn't have any intel on what would drop this beast in its tracks. He doesn't know what he's dealing with, but he can't just stand there.

Someone steps directly in front of him.

Bobby freezes. He knows this man: tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a battered brown leather jacket and worn blue jeans. Those wide green eyes glow bright reddish gold.

Just like the damn horse's.

"D-Dean?"

"Hey, Bobby," Dean says mildly.

* * *

Next chapter will be posted on Saturday.


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N:**_ To lizard971, SeraphimXII and PADavis - Yeah, I know I said Saturday. Missed it by _that _much. I rewrote the first part. Should have been Ellen and Bobby's POV on seeing Dean and Samirah. Should have been chock full of weirdness, with Dean being unable to see how much he changed.

Should have been. It _wasn't_. _It sucked_. So here's the re-write. Be kind, okay? I think it's worth the wait. I appreciate all the reviews and attention this story has gotten. so if I haven't answered your review, please bear with me. I'm a little freaked out by all the attention Black Horse is getting, but in a good, _good _way.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit. There, I've said it and I feel better for it.

* * *

_**Chapter 14**_

"Uh, Bobby?" Dean quirks an eyebrow at Bobby's shotgun. "Dude. _Not_ a good idea."

"What?"

Dean shakes his head as he leans forward. That copper glow in his eyes deepens. "Not gonna let you shoot my girl."

"Your what?"

Behind them the black horse screams again, loud and long.

There's the awful thump of hooves against solid flesh, the smell of burnt ashes in the air. Bobby acts on pure reflex then,raises the barrel of the shotgun up slightly.

Dean's eyes narrow, just a bit. He doesn't look pissed or even particularly concerned, but Bobby knows he's fucked up for sure now. You never point a gun at someone unless you intend to shoot, but that copper glow in Dean's eyes, that unnatural serene look on the boy's face pricks at Bobby's nerve endings, sends them jolting into a near screaming panic.

Dean's _Other_ now, and Bobby knows it.

_My God, if I didn't know him, I would hunt him. _

Bobby glances down, sees Dean's right hand, glowing pale gold and warm copper, fingers spread wide.

Hell, that _can't_ be right.

It's a light touch, almost affectionate. An attaboy, a pat. Dean doesn't even tighten his grip on Bobby's arm, but it's more than enough. Bobby has just enough time to wonder how Dean was able to get that close that fast, but even that thought is swept away as all the colors in the world around him turn gray. The shotgun's weight is too heavy for him to hold. His fingers jerk open, and the gun clatters to the ground.

A moment later Bobby's on his knees, staring dazedly at the shifting colors in Dean's fingers. For some reason Bobby thinks about that big stainless steel ring Dean used to wear. It was probably blown to bits up in Devil's Gate over six months ago. Even if it wasn't, and just got blown off, there was no time to go back to the graveyard and search for it.

Dean's got his right hand back now, but not his ring, and that's all Bobby can think about at the moment.

* * *

Ellen doesn't give herself time to think. If she thinks, she'll hesitate. If she hesitates, everything will go south for sure.

Like it hasn't gone there already.

The woman in the black leather jacket's nothing more than a large greasy stain now, dark oil and charred ashes on the ground. The black horse dances in place atop the ashes for a few more seconds, her hooves glowing red hot.

"Let him go, Dean." Ellen grates out. Her aim with her pistol doesn't waver.

"_Ellen,"_ Dean purrs softly. There's a deep vibration in his voice that almost startles her into dropping her gun. No human pair of lungs should be capable of making a rumble like that. Dean raises his head, smirks a little as he glances over his shoulder at her. Ellen's finger tightens slightly on the trigger.

Dean's smirk gets a little deeper when he sees that.

Ellen blinks, and Dean's suddenly _there,_ right behind her.

"Dean, what the hell happened to you?"

"_Happened? Nothing's happened."_ His breath is warm against the back of her neck; the timbre of his voice raises goosebumps on her skin. _"Not yet, anyway." _He steps around, where Ellen can see him._ "You gonna shoot me, Ellen?"_ Dean tilts his head to one side. He looks thoughtful, then amused. _"And here I thought you came here to save me from myself."_

"We know why you're here."

_"No shit."_

"You're going to make a deal with a crossroads demon. You want John and Sam back."

"Appreciate the concern, but I don't need saving. You and Bobby should turn around and go back home. _Right the hell now_."

The black horse has stopped moving. Ellen feels a chill of fear claw its way up her spine when she realizes the beast is standing quietly, staring directly at her, and the glow in those reddish gold eyes seems murderous in the bright moonlight.

A loud rumble of thunder shakes the air. The sky overhead is clear, except for that pale bleached bone skull of a moon high overhead.

Another rumble shakes the ground. Ellen realizes that the sound is coming from the horse.

"Ellen, I want you to do me a favor," Dean drawls, almost lazily. "I want you to put the gun away. Otherwise," Dean nods towards the great black animal, and his face actually softens a little, "she's gonna go full-on medieval on you, and I don't think I can stop her once she gets started."

Ellen's face hardens. "Think she's fast enough to outrun a bullet, Dean?"

The black snorts, thick white steam rising in the night air.

Dean smiles then. "Yeah, I do. She is." He turns around, looks Ellen right in the eyes. Dean looks wistful, almost normal. Those thin scars around his right eye are barely visible in the moonlight. His right hand glows subtly, softly.

The black horse cocks her head to one side, swishes her tail. She whinnies at Dean, a softer sound than all the screaming from before.

"Ten minutes, huh?" Dean says. "Okay." Then he sounds indignant: "What d'ya mean, I have lousy taste in friends?"

The horse stretches its neck out at Dean, shakes its head from side to side. She whickers again, low and somehow affectionate. It's easy and familiar between the two of them, as though they've known each other all their lives.

_Good God Almighty,_ Ellen thinks to herself, _I must be losing my mind. _She slips her gun into her back waistband.

The horse steps off the grease spot that was Little Miss Nobody almost daintily, places those hooves precisely as it walks. She prances up to Dean, bowing her head like a warhorse.

"Hey, girl," Dean whispers quietly. That sleek black coat ripples with dark blue lightning in the moonlight. She's wearing tack now, a black bridle and a matching black leather saddle that looks like nothing Ellen has ever seen before. Dean reaches out, strokes the animal's velvet soft nose with his right hand. She closes her eyes and leans into his touch.

Bobby sways from side to side, stares dull-eyed as Ellen kneels in front of her.

_Don't have time for this,_ Ellen thinks to herself. She takes him by both shoulders and shakes him, not too gently. "Robert Eugene Singer," Ellen snarls, "I'm not doing this all by myself. Snap out of it, you hear me? Right now."

" 'm awake, woman," Bobby grumbles. He blinks at her a couple more times, and with each blink his eyes get clearer. "No need to snap at me like that." Bobby turns and looks at Dean and the horse.

"Damn."

The kid looks _happy_. Relaxed and content, the happiest he's ever looked since John and Sam died, or even before that, maybe. Dean's standing there, shoulder to shoulder with that massive black beast, the horse's great sleek head curved around his right shoulder. She lips at his fingers, and Dean laughs.

They're so free and easy with each other, the mere sight of it clenches Bobby's guts. He's seen Dean that comfortable with only two other people: John and Sam.

Dean and the horse are having some sort of conversation, and apparently they don't see Bobby and Ellen as much of a threat anymore. The black's eyes flash a brighter copper color, and Dean's eyes glow in response.

"Well, if she doesn't show," Dean murmurs aloud, "we'll hunt her sorry ass down."

The black pricks her ears, nods her head _yes_.

Dean smiles as he cards her thick forelock with his fingers. "Uh huh. Knew you'd like that. You can tap dance on her head too if you wanna."

Bobby and Ellen blink at nearly the same time, and when they do, Dean changes.

That battered brown leather jacket of his is gone. So are his workboots, t shirt, and faded blue jeans. Dean's dressed all in black now, from his head to his toes. Sleek black, unnaturally perfect, a cassock, long slim pants, topped by a black leather longcoat with a deep hood.

Another blink, and Dean's back, but he's far from normal, and Bobby and Ellen both know it.

"Shit. Shit!" Bobby grates out as his knees buckle. "Help me up, damn it."

Ellen drapes Bobby's left arm over her shoulders. "Hope you got a hellacious plan B tucked somewhere underneath that trucker's cap of yours, Singer, 'cause hogtying him and dragging him back to your place just isn't an option anymore."

"I know that. I'm gonna talk to him."

"Lord." Ellen's eye roll is classic. "We're doomed."

* * *

After a few steps Bobby grumbles and pulls his arm away. He's just as unsteady on his feet the second time, but he settles himself after a few more steps on his own. Right arm's still numb from whatever Dean did to him, but it's getting better every second.

The horse grunts softly to herself when she sees Bobby and Ellen approach. It's just a sound, a vaguely mocking one. She stands relaxed, mirrors the same attitude of amused contempt Dean has.

"Son, you're making a big mistake---"

Dean scowls.

_Not so amused, then,_ Bobby thinks.

"I'm_ not_ your son, Bobby. You're not my Dad."

"Think about what you're doing, for Christ's sake. Your Dad wouldn't want you to do this. Sam wouldn't want you to do this," Bobby says, more gently, as he rubs his left hand slowly down his right arm, frowning a little as his arm comes awake with a thrill of pins and needles. "Dean, you gotta let them go. Don't you see that?"

"This isn't any of your damn business. I want my family back. My dad and my brother."

"That thing" Bobby nods towards the black horse, "has killed innocent people."

Dean's voice changes, vibrates off Bobby's skin. _"That makes two of us."_

_Thing?_ The black rumbles, narrows her eyes.

"It's a kelpie. A spirit horse. Same thing we hunted years ago. Isn't that right?"

The horse snorts, makes a chuckling noise that sounds like laughter.

Dean smirks. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about, old man."

"Old man, huh? Then why don't you enlighten us, Dean?"

"I don't have to tell you a damned thing. Neither one of you know how the hell I feel. You _don't_. I lost Dad, and I lost Sam. They died because of me."

"Dean," Ellen says slowly. "They didn't."

"Yeah, they did. _They did_," Dean hisses. He takes a step forward, and the air churns black all around him. Blue denim, brown leather to sleek black, and back again. "I took care of them all my life, and I couldn't even do that right. I should have died instead of them. _I would have._"

"But _you_ didn't." Bobby's tone is soft, gentle. "That's a hard thing, isn't it, kid? Dying's easier."

"You think _so_, huh?" Dean huffs. His voice deepens again. _"You don't know jack about dying, Bobby. Neither one of you do._" Dean's smile is sly, too knowing, somehow alien. _"I could show you a thing or too about that."_

Ellen steps forward. "Then why don't you, Dean?"

"Uh, Ellen?" Bobby whispers as the black horse pricks her ears alertly. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I want to see it. Show us exactly what you're talking about, Dean. I'd like to see."

Dean steps to the right and back, away from her. "You're not worth the damn effort," he growls darkly.

Ellen shrugs. It's as if they're both back at Harvelle's Roadhouse, and she's holding court behind the bar. Kid's backing down from her, just like he always did. "I can't understand this if you don't show me."

The horse steps forward, whinnies as if to say, _I'll show you like I did that other one. _

"I don't give a damn if you _never_ understand." Dean gently takes the black horse by the bridle, turns her around, leads her in the opposite direction.

The animal snorts at him. Dean scowls and shakes his head. "I said no." He stands there quietly for a moment, stroking the horse's ears. Just as Bobby opens his mouth to say something, Dean mutters, "Why is it always _us_, huh?"

Bobby and Ellen both stop, and wait.

"Why? Can you answer me that? You think I can get a fucking straight answer from somebody instead of all this 'There is a divine plan' bullshit?"

Bobby and Ellen look puzzled. The black horse groans, as if she's heard this all before, but she's insistent, pushes that huge, sleek head into Dean's hands instead. _Pet me, damn it._

Dean grunts. "My mom used to tell me that angels were watching over me." He looks at Ellen, and then Bobby. That vibration in his voice and in the air around him is gone. He seems younger, more human now.

"Never told you that, but she did." Dean shakes his head. "Talk about fucking up on the job. Where were they when my mom died? Where were they when Dad and Sam died? What, was Devil's Gate off limits to them or something? They sit back on their asses and watch us live and die, do all this big talk about faith and plans, and that's _all_ they do. I don't give a rat's ass if you don't understand me. You can hate me for all I care. I'm getting my family back. Bobby, you can't tell you haven't thought about doing this. Coming here to make a deal to get your wife back. Ellen? Your husband? I know you think about him every day. You'd give anything to see him again."

"Anything but my soul," Ellen whispers quietly.

"Dean, what the hell are you talking about? Boy, don't you realize that you're about to sell your immortal soul to a demon? That's not the way to honor John and Sam's memory."

Dean barks a short burst of laughter that sends a chill down Bobby's spine. "I'm not gonna honor their memory. Dad can kick my ass when he finds out what I did. I don't care."

* * *

Ellen sees her first, a little girl, couldn't be more than eight years old, dressed in a pink and white pinafore, long blonde pigtails down past her shoulders, holding a big brown teddy bear. She stands directly on top of the crossroads, and her eyes are a cold milky white.

Her grin is anything but childlike as she takes the entire scene in.

Bobby thinks about the silver flask of holy water in the pocket of his vest. He thinks about raising his hand, pulling the flask out.

That's all he can do, think, and breathe. He's frozen in place.

_Demon,_ Ellen thinks. _White eyes, big time._ It's all Ellen can do but flick her eyes sideways at Bobby. She can't move either.

"Gee, mister, can I pet your horse?" the little girl chirps. "Such a big good pony."

Dean doesn't even turn around. "You're late, Lillith."

_Lillith? Adam's first wife. Oh my God…_Bobby strains to move, but nothing works.

"Didn't think you'd mind. Figured letting you erase Ruby from the face of the earth would help you and your girl pass the time." Lillith hugs her teddy bear to her chest as she walks forward.

She looks at the dark grease spot on the ground and smiles brightly as she stops right next to Dean's left elbow. "I knew all about the history between you three. I never liked her anyway. Good job."

Lillith waves brightly at Bobby and Ellen. "Make a couple of fine lawn ornaments, don't you think? I didn't say anything about you bringing friends to this party, though. Don't tell me, let me guess. They came to save you, came to stop you from making the deal with big bad me." She hugs her teddy bear even tighter to her chest. The animal's stuffed legs wiggle from side to side. "That's cute."

"Did you come to deal, or did you come to make smartass remarks.?" Dean says mildly.

"What? I can't have a little fun on the job?" Lillith pouts. "Oh, all right. The deal still stands, Dean. You and your girl will ride for me. Forever. Whenever I say, where ever I say. In return I'll bring back your father and your brother. They'll never die. Never grow old."

Dean looks around the parking lot. "Where are they?"

_Dean,_ Ellen thinks to herself, _don't do this…_

Lillith shrugs. "They're under lock and key, in a safe place. We still have to seal the deal first, big boy. Right here, right now. It'll take more than a kiss with me. I'm talking about third base and then some. Hey, we could do it in front of your friends. They can still see and hear. Give 'em a show they'd never forget."

Dean just looks at her.

"What's the matter, Dean? Am I too young for you?" Lillith smiles slyly. "Never figured you for a prude, Winchester."

Dean quirks an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, all right. _Geez._ Grow a sense of humor, will ya? Kidding. I'm just kidding. We can go to my place. House on the hillside, lights turned down low. Even got some Barry White on the stereo. Put you in the right mood. You'll have to leave your girl here with the garden gnomes, though."

_You don't have to do this, kid. You don't. Dean, please…_Bobby sends the thought out there, with all the force he can muster. _I'm begging you, don't do this…_

Once Lillith shows up, Dean never looks at Bobby or Ellen again.

"All right." Dean strokes Samirah gently between the eyes. "Behave yourself, all right? No killing while I'm gone." The black horse rumbles at him, and Dean nods, satisfied. "I'll take that as a yes."

Lillith looks bored. "Time's a-wasting, _Gaelen_. Let's go." She reaches up and out.

Dean takes her hand without hesitation.

They're gone in the blink of an eye. Bobby and Ellen drop gasping to their hands and knees. All that's left is the cars on the deserted parking lot, the moon above, and the black horse.

* * *

_Nice place,_ Dean thinks to himself. _This demon bitch is full of surprises._

No Barry White, no lights turned down low. It's daylight outside, rolling green hillsides all around, and the floor underneath his boots is made of smooth golden marble stone. Dean can see the hot tub bubbling away in the next room through the stone archway on the far side. Water's scented. He can't identify the oil. Smells like lavender, but Dean highly doubts that it is.

He looks at the champagne flute in his left hand, takes a small sip. High end. The bubbles tickle his nose, but that's so girly Dean won't admit to it. Good stuff. He's had a lot of liquor in his lifetime, mostly draft beer, Jack and Jose, with an occasional foray into some more cultured stuff, depending on his mood and how the credit cards were running. This is nice, though. Expensive and smooth.

_I'm in a temple. A damned stone temple somewhere_, Dean thinks to himself, and the thought surprises a genuine laugh out of him. _Well, hell._

The room is a hell of a lot bigger than he thought it was before, with carvings and runes engraved into the walls and ceilings. Dean sees patterns, triangles, cuneiforms, and some of the writing looks familiar, like Latin, but he knows most of it isn't. This is ancient, eternal stuff.

"Do you like the place, Dean? Or should I call you _Gaelen_?" Lillith sounds almost shy.

"You can call me Dean." He takes his time turning around, partly because he really doesn't want to see what she's shifted into this time. Probably something with scales and tentacles, horns and beaks and claws, something godawful hideous, and that would be a joke, the ultimate one. The things he does for Dad and Sam scare him sometimes, but Dean won't hesitate. He'll pay the price.

He turns, looks, and stops dead in his tracks.

She's breathtaking. One of the most beautiful women he's ever has ever seen.

Long, straight blue black hair down to the middle of her back, with flawless olive skin. Her large wide eyes are light brown, framed by long dark eyelashes. Her full, generous mouth is colored deep cherry red that picks up the colors of the sash and some of the colors in that spectacular flowered black silk kimono she's wearing.

Dean sweeps his eyes up and down her form, and he can't help but smirk a little. _Damn._ She's busty _and_ long-legged.

"I know about the Colt," Lillith murmurs. "And your right hand."

Dean flinches. That could be a deal-breaker. He hadn't mentioned it before; even if the deal does through she'll probably make him pay for that, and pay dearly.

They stare at each other for a long moment, then Lillith shrugs. "What, you thought you could dust Zachariah and think no one would notice?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Maybe it does. Why'd you kill him? I mean, an angel, of all beings?"

Dean shrugs. "What have they done for me lately? Who showed up with the offer to bring my father and my brother back? I didn't see any of those feathered fucks breaking their necks to make a deal with me. Nobody but you."

"That's right." Lillith smiles quietly. "Tell me, Dean. Do you still want to make the deal?"

"Can you bring my dad and my brother back? Alive and well, forever?"

Lillith nods.

"Hell yeah, I do."

"Would you ever hurt me with that hand? Turn against me? Kill me?"

Dean shakes his head. "No. I won't welsh on the deal. I'll keep my word."

Lillith smiles brightly. "I know you will." She walks over to Dean slowly. He doesn't even flinch when she reaches up gently cups the side of his face with her hand.

"I like the scars, Dean. I like them very, _very_ much. I hope you decide to keep them. You know. Afterwards. I know what you need. I'll leave enough of the world so that you can have a life. With your brother. And your Dad."

Lillian goes up on tiptoe, kisses and pulls at Dean's left earlobe. "Cassie Robinson, maybe?" she whispers. "You can have her. Any of the other women you've had. All of them. None of them. Your choice."

"So I have some say in this?"

"Of course you do." She reaches out, takes him by his right. It startles him just a little, seeing her touching his hand like that, feeling her slim fingers against the shifting colors of his palm and fingers, knowing that it burned Zachariah from the inside out.

Lillith smiles as she gently, slowly rubs the back of his hand against the side of her face. "You see? I'm safe with you. We're safe with each other, Dean. Don't be shy. Don't hide from me. You can touch me with your right hand, and I won't break."

She releases his hand, pushes her body up against him, lanquid and slow. Just enough friction. Just enough to ignite a different kind of spark underneath his skin.

"Right now?" Lillith quirks her lips upwards into a quiet smile. "I'm hungry, Dean."

It starts off slow, like some of the best times do.

She nuzzles at his neck as she helps him shrug out of his leather jacket. The room's warmer, all of a sudden. Even pulling off his t shirt doesn't help. Dean didn't notice the bed in the corner before, an impossibly large round bed with black silk sheets that looks as soft as the clouds above and probably is. Dean feels the heat build inside him, pooling in his belly, tightening his skin, and he welcomes it, but there's one last coherent thought that he holds on to.

"My mom…" He bends his head, lays down a line of kisses around and underneath Lillith's jawline. There's no pulse point there, nothing but smooth skin and taut muscle.

"No can do, sport. Not yet anyway." Lillith nips and licks at Dean's lower lip. "She's up there," the demon whispers and Dean knows exactly where _there _is, as he unties the red kimono sash. He opens the kimono, slides it off her shoulders and her body is just as he imagined it would be, smooth and soft and lean in all the right places. "Later, I promise." Lillith murmurs breathily as she pushes against him. "You and Samirah can ride through the Gates of heaven to get her."

He doesn't even remember walking over to the bed with her in his arms, but he's lying down with her in that vast pool of black silk now, so he must have.

Lillith stares at Dean's right hand. She kisses his fingertips, then takes his hand and guides it to her left breast. "Touch me with it, Dean. Touch me all over with it. I want you to."

He touches her all over, slowly, and there's only heat and friction between the two of them. No death, nothing like that, but as they engulf each other Dean is still aware enough to realize that there's something not quite right.

He sees it, but he thinks of John, Sam and Samirah. He's not going to stop and he really doesn't give a fuck.

The taste of her skin and mouth, for one thing. It's fresh strawberries and bitter ashes, something dusty and rotten lurking just beneath the surface of that smooth, creamy skin. Her skin is smooth and warm, but if he stares for too long he sees dark blue skin instead, bruised and lined with an eternity of blood, pain and fear. She arches against him, and those full lips skin back in a snarl, exposing jagged, needlelike teeth. Her tongue is long and forked, mottled bluish purple.

He sees all of this if he looks. If he sees, if he realizes that he's in bed with a centuries old demon who's claiming him and his immortal soul.

So Dean doesn't see. He doesn't look. He closes his eyes, loses himself in the friction of her body against his. He kisses her mouth anyway. As the kiss deepens he loses himself completely, and it's just as well.

Doesn't matter, None of it does. Dean thinks of his lost loved ones, thinks of his mom and his dad and his brother, thinks of Samirah and how he'll never leave her again, and he knows he would do this all over again. He wouldn't hesitate, not for a second.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ The next update will be Sunday. Yep, I said Sunday.


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N:**_ It's Sunday, folks. As promised. Thanks to Jenna for coming up with the phrase 'apocahorse'. And a belated shout out to Water Nymph1970 for inspiring me to write the Dean/Lillith scenes last chapter and here. Water is the proud author of _Weird Dean_. It's a damn good read; check it out. She mixes plot and characterization with good old fashioned smut. Dean has a secret; you'll have to read the story yourself to find out what it is. I'll never look at the movie_ Gladiator_ the same way again, lemme tell ya.

_**A/N the 2**__**nd**__**:**_ Also, the views expressed in this chapter by Dean Winchester and Samirah do not represent the views of the author. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own _Supernatural_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

Samirah's bored.

A horse is a horse, of course, of course. And elemental or not,_ apocahorse_ or not, a bored Arabian is a mischievous Arabian; any horseperson will tell you that.

"Behave yourself," Dean told her before he left. "Don't kill anyone."

Samirah stands there flicking her ears back and forth, her eyes new penny bright as she considers all the possibilities around her.

Ruby is a grease spot on the ground. Samirah snorts as she considers her handiwork. That's one of hell's bitches who's _never_ coming back.

_Huh. Well, what 'dya know? _

Those two humans on their hands and knees over there look like_ fun_.

They've got their heads down, too busy sucking air into their tortured lungs. Lillith was none too gentle when she released them as she and Dean left. They don't even notice as Samirah walks slowly around them.

Samirah lowers her head, nickers softly at the male. _Hey, you in the vest. Monkey boy._

Nothing. Like most humans, he's too thick and too dumb to respond to a thought voice.

_Hey._ Samirah pushes the man in his shoulder with her nose. She gets a noseful of gunpowder from that blue and red flannel shirt he's wearing and sneezes explosively. Sleeveless Vest Monkey Boy is still too slow to react. His eyes are still slightly glazed over.

Doesn't really matter. Samirah knows a trick or two to get their attention. Maybe even three.

"…wakey wakey…" she rumbles aloud softly, right in the old hunter's ear. He jerks up a little, then freezes, just like that. His eyes widen in the shadow underneath the bill of that cap and that suits Samirah just fine.

The human woman freezes too. She's thinking about the pistol tucked away in her back waistband, but her eyes cut over to the grease spot that was Ruby. The female hunter's weighing the odds, and they don't look good in their favor.

Samirah's always been able to read humans perfectly well. These two? They feel fear, but they're not going to let _that_ stop them. What Samirah scents most of all is anger and regret. Mostly anger for what they think she's done to Dean. They'd love to be able to kick her ass, to kill her or to vanquish her somehow.

_Yeah, right,_ she thinks to herself. _Like__** that's**__ gonna happen._

Monkey Boy flicks a glance over at the entrance to Lloyd's. Monkey Girl nods slightly in response. Samirah can tell by the way he holds himself the older guy is still kind of stiff, but the woman is plenty agile.

They crouch there, frozen. One minute, then two. Samirah rolls her eyes. Well,_ hell_. This is no fun. Yelling and screaming and running around like chickens with their heads cut off…now _that's_ fun. Quality entertainment.

"So your middle name's Eugene, yeah?" Samirah rumbles. Her ears twitch. She lips gently at the male's right ear. He grits his teeth and the tips of his ears turn red with anger.

"I knew a Eugene once." Samirah licks her lips, wolfishly. "He tasted good," she purrs.

"Well, aren't you Little Miss Sunshine," Monkey Girl grits out. She shoots Samirah a murderous look that amuses the black to no end.

Samirah nearly grins. At last. A worthy adversary.

Monkey Boy shrugs. The crow's feet around his eyes tightens up, just a little. "Well, then. Now what?" he growls roughly. "Is this the part where you start mouthing off that Dean is yours forever?"

Samirah shakes her head. She stretches her neck down so her head is at their eye level. "Nope. We were made for each other. Way before your ancestors were even born. That's just facts." Samirah's eyes flash brightly. "This is the part where I run your asses all over this parking lot."

They both scramble to their feet and she just stands there watching as they run. It's only fair. No telling how long Dean is going to be, and they're his so-called friends, after all. They don't even try to pull their guns on her, because they know that wouldn't do any good.

Damn right it wouldn't.

They make for Lloyd's Bar, and Samirah wheels and dodges like a cutting horse as she blocks the door. The humans turn and sprint for the water tower, and she chases them at a leisurely gallop. They move through the space underneath the structure, try to lure her in that way, using themselves as bait.

Samirah laughs. She can sense the devil's trap on the underside of the water tank.

It doesn't work on her, and she really enjoys the way their eyes widen when she finally charges at them right underneath the damn thing.

_Priceless._

She circles around, comes at them from the opposite end. They make another last run for Lloyd's, and they stop when Samirah gets there first in a blur of black lightning.

This is the most fun she's had in years.

At one point the humans decide to scatter. The male goes one way and the woman goes another. Samirah moves so fast she's in both places at once. She whinnies at them loud and long, shakes her head at them from side to side, always laughing.

She lets them think the way to Lloyd's is clear one more time, and she's suddenly_ there_ again in front of the doorway again, rearing on her hind legs, pawing at the night sky. The humans finally head for this beer delivery truck that stands abandoned nearby.

Samirah circles wide around the truck as they scramble up the side. She prances around the vehicle, snorting steam and laughing, having herself a fine old time. She could have easily caught them at any time, could have stretched out her neck, grabbed them by the clothing with her teeth and jerked them off their feet, but where's the fun in that?

* * *

"Deal's sealed now, Dean. Knew I made the right choice when I picked you," Lillith murmurs softly. It's just a statement, doesn't even call for an answer. What the hell do you say to something like that: "Gee, I'm really glad you enjoyed claiming my immortal soul, skank. So I really rocked your world, huh?"

He'd tell her to choke on it, if it wasn't for John and Sam, so Dean doesn't say anything.

Lying there in bed on those silk sheets is like lying on a cloud of dense, soft blackness. He aches all over, in all sorts of interesting places. She tasted his blood, light pricks of teeth and claws against his skin. He started out gentle at first, but she pissed him off when she whispered in his ear: "Is that all you _got_, Winchester?" Dean growled at her, put bruises on her skin with his fingers. Lillith actually smiled then, and started purring.

They went at each other for hours.

Lillith runs her fingers up and down the side of his jawline, and Dean doesn't flinch at her touch. No sense in getting all shy and girly this late in the game. She lays her head and right arm on his chest, kisses his chin with a sigh, then settles back down beside him.

_Oh, great,_ Dean thinks to himself. _Now the bitch wants to cuddle._

He's got his game face on, manages not to roll his eyes as he puts his arm around her waist, pulls her to him even closer as she snuggles into his side.

He's_ her_ bitch, and he gave himself willingly to her. Now and friggin' _forever_.

…_a/nna muhhi nasaka…_

Never even thought about using his right hand on her. How fucking pathetic was that? He thought of Dad and Sam, and there was no question about that. Bringing people back from the dead was a walk in the park for Lillith and her kind. And the only thing those damn angels were good for was "be a good little boy, there is a plan, Dean."

Well, fuck _that_.

…_gerú massatu…_

Thing is, he doesn't feel any different. According to some of the lore, victims who'd lost or sold their souls felt incomplete, like there was a deep, black hole inside them. He could do that one better. The hole inside him opened up the night he saw John and Sam die, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it. His soul was ripped out of him to begin with. Fucking this thing is the only way he can see to get it back.

…_hiyālu emedú idat simni hutennu ula ahāiš…_

Dean drifts further off into sleep. He's dimly aware of Lillith's fingers tracing the outline of his face and shoulders. She's examining the goods, and unless she wants to go again, he'll let her.

…_ina síari pānat pi maqatứ insumu kēniŝ kimiltu mesesu tukkanat…_

Never been this tired before.…

…_isku ulsaniš zikku __vero eos et kiritû…_

Dad's gonna be _pissed_. _Geez, dude, understate much?_ Making deals with demons….oh_ yeah_, that's gonna go over _real_ well with the old man.

…_iusto ismekkú odio qui blanditiis kisúbbis deleniti…_

Sam will probably want to know how Dean was feeling _before_ the deal went down, want to talk about Dean's feelings _ad nauseum_. _Shit._

…_emenu atque miglu corrupti sibutu temi et…_

Dean loses the battle to keep his eyes open, and for a moment, just a moment, he actually forgets where he is.

…_quas molestias __exceptur__i emuquá __sint…_

And what he's in bed with.

…_obcaecat__i hanasứ __cupiditat__e… _

That doesn't last long.

…_sunt labaris qui kuskugalu deserunt esēpu mollit__ia labiris __anim__i epris…_

Lillith's mouths the words, whispers them into his skin. Dean gasps as his lungs seize up right in the middle of a breathful of air. His back arches up, suddenly, painfully, and his muscles lock in that position as a wave of red hot pain sizzles through his nerve endings from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

"…guh….gnuh…" He can still feel his fingertips, and his hands hook into claws, grabbing handfuls of slick black silk, squeezing it between his fingers, clawing vainly at the bed.

He rips the bed open, ends up with handfuls of stuffing between his fingers, and none of it does any damn good.

…_non seketu…eraditus tu dias uinine…_

His arms are stretched out to his sides, hands pinned to the bed, fingers tangled up in shreds of the sheets and the bed stuffing. Only the top of his head and his heels touch the bed.

"Dean?" Lillith smirks. And she's smirking all right. Through the white static and the pain roaring between his ears, Dean can _see_ the smirk, he can _hear_ it in her voice. "Sweetie?"

"…uhhhh…"

"Come on, open your eyes for me," she purrs. "Come on." His eyes blink open with a jerk, and all Dean sees is bright white light. He doesn't realize his eyes are filled with it. Streamers of light drift up from between his lips, out of his nose, as he bites back the scream inside him.

"That's a good big boy."

Lillith's fingers glide across his left shoulder, and Dean's body bucks violently upward even more as she presses her palm against his skin, digs her fingers into his flesh.

"…won't scream…" Dean grates out. "…won't…."

"Oh, come on, Dean. Don't be like that," Lillith whispers in his ear. "The more you fight it, the worse it will hurt. Anyway, this is just my little way of reminding you who you belong to now. That's all. When you were a kid I know you put your name on your stuff. Same thing." She sounds exasperated. "I don't know _why_ everybody gets so worked up over this."

"…gnuhh…"

"The sooner you scream, the sooner we can move on to the next stage. So let me hear it, Winchester. Sing out. For your girl, your little brother and dear old dad."

Dean lets go. He screams, loud and long, screams his pain out into the still air, and everything around him goes stark white.

He's lying on his stomach when he comes out of it, muscles weak and sprung and wasted, tangled up in those black silk sheets as weak as a newborn. The pain of her handprint on his left shoulder is a dull, low throb. He pulls air into his tortured lungs, nearly gags from the taste of sulfur in his mouth, but it's all he can do but lay there as little girl Lillith cards his short blond hair, kisses him on his forehead.

"Good boy," she whispers. "My sweet, obedient, good boy."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Y'all know the drill. This bad boy will be updated later on this week. Lillith's chant in ancient Sumerian? It's a combination of boilerplate Latin and Sumerian words I found online. I have no clue what the words mean.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 16**_

It's been three hours now, and she's still ambling around the parking lot, ears flicking back and forth, eyes bright. Occasionally she stretches her neck out at them, shakes her head from side to side and whinnies, light and playful.

Bobby recognizes it for what it is. "That bitch is laughing at us."

"I'm only laughing on the inside," Samirah rumbles. "I'm crying on the outside."

"The only thing worse than a fugly is a talking fugly who doesn't know when to shut the hell up!" Bobby yells out.

"Oh boo hoo." Samirah calls out. She kicks up her heels for the pure joy of it. "Come on down here, Monkey Boy." She purses her lips at him. "I'm lonely."

Ellen frowns. "Uh, Bobby, you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just," Bobby scrubs his face with his hand. "Just a little tired. Worried about the mess this idjit has gotten himself into."

Ellen checks her pistol tucked away in her back waistband for what seems to be the twentieth time. Still there, for all the good it did them. Bobby's shotgun is a flattened strip of molten metal down in Lloyd's parking lot. An hour after she chased them up on the truck, the black horse apparently got bored and decided to tap dance on it. "Did you hear what she said? That she and Dean were made for each other?"

"Figures. I don't know why, but it does. God Almighty, that boy's gotten himself into some clusterfucks before, but this…" Bobby shakes his head.

"What the hell is going on here?" Ellen growls. "If Dean didn't make a deal already, how the hell did he get his right hand back? And why does it look like a firefly or something?"

They quirk eyebrows at each other and Ellen shrugs. "It's all rhetorical, Singer. If you knew the answers we wouldn't be up here."

Bobby's eyes widen as he stares at what's left of the woman and his shotgun. "Maybe I do know some of the answers. I think I know that critter."

"How?"

"John, Dean and me…we hunted that thing years ago. Rancher and his hired hands tried to rope it, didn't know what they were dealing with. Stomped everybody involved," Bobby nods, "pretty much like it did that woman. We followed it up into the mountains. Dean got too close. Never could figure out exactly what happened. He got hurt during the hunt, and it must have influenced him somehow. From what John said later, things got pretty lively in the ER."

Bobby chuckled wryly as he remembered the shocked looks on the security guards' faces hours later when he finally got there. "Thought we got Dean away clean…"

"Apparently not. What the hell is that thing?"

"Spirit horse, maybe. A kelpie?" Bobby says thoughtfully. He stares at the animal. "Color's right. Black. But the rest? I don't know. I've heard about these types of critters, but there's so much lore out there. Too much."

"So we wait until Dean comes back. Damn." Her back hurts and so does her ass from sitting on that metal roof for the past three hours.

Bobby shrugs. "That's the only way to play this."

* * *

Dean slips on his leather jacket, flips the collar up, just the way he always likes it. "When do I see my dad and my brother?"

Lillith frowns as she twirls the end of one long blonde ponytail around her finger. She hugs her teddy bear to her chest as she sits on the edge of the bed, swings her legs back and forth. She smells like strawberry chewing gum, not sulfur, all chipper and sweet and little girl innocent. It's all a lie and Dean knows it.

"Geez, I'm trying to build up tension and suspense for the big reveal here. You crazy kids nowadays don't have any patience at all, you know?"

The smooth marble floor underneath his boots shifts, turns to dirt and rocks and sparse grass. Dean blinks, and he's back at the crossroads, standing directly on top of it. The lighted sign at Lloyd's Bar blinks feebly overhead.

_Good boy. _

The skin on Dean's left shoulder tightens up a little. He can almost see the handprint: raised flesh, slightly red and puffy. Small, delicate, all five fingers clearly etched into his skin.

_My sweet, obedient, good boy._

A small knot of tension forms between Dean's shoulder blades; it's a tell of his, something his body's always done in reaction to stress. He's never mentioned this to anyone, not Sam, and especially not Dad, and he's not about to start sharing and caring now.

Dean rolls his shoulders as he walks forward. He thinks of John and Sam, how it's gonna be when he sees them again. He checks out his surroundings automatically: he's still too much of a hunter not to, otherwise. It takes his mind off the handprint, gives him something else to concentrate on.

Samirah's still here? Check.

Ruby's still a grease spot? Check.

Movement above his eye line catches Dean's attention, and he starts scowling

Bobby and Ellen are still _here_.

Dean walks forward. Head's a little fuzzy, white static echoing along his nerve endings.

Bobby and Ellen are still here.

And they're sitting on top of a Coors delivery truck.

Samirah circles around him, tail swishing lazily back and forth, trying hard to look innocent and failing miserably at it. There's unmistakable glee in her eyes.

Dean stops dead in his tracks as he finally gets it.

Bobby and Ellen are still _here_.

Bobby and Ellen are still here, and they're sitting on top of a Coors delivery truck.

And damn, do they look _pissed_.

_Son of a bitch…_

"_That's_ your idea of behaving yourself?" Dean grumbles. He puts a hand out to stroke Samirah's neck and she prances sideways, out of his reach.

_You told me not to kill anybody, Wil-burrr._ She dances along, moves around him in a wide circle, still hyped up from having her fun.

Dean scowls. _Wilbur?_

He can feel the dagger sharp glares Bobby and Ellen are throwing at him, senses the fully loaded pistol in Ellen's back waistband. If looks could kill he'd be dead already.

Which would be pretty damn funny considering _what_ he is.

Dean takes another step forward, towards Bobby and Ellen. He can read them both perfectly well: Ellen wants to throttle him and Bobby wants to kick his ass. Considering what's been going on in the last few months since Wyoming, that's really not new, but pissed doesn't even begin to cover all of this now.

Dean's torn. What he really wants to do is mount up, ride as far away from here, as fast as he can. Samirah evidently picks up on the way he's feeling; she walks over and pokes him in the right shoulder with her nose.

Dean blinks, hoping that this is all some illusion. No such luck.

They're _still_ up there. And they're _still_ pissed.

Ellen gets up on her knees, eases over to the side of the truck. Dean steps up just as she swings over, holding onto and stepping down using the metal handholds in the side of the truck.

Dean puts out a hand to help her, and he leads with his right hand, doesn't even realize it until it's too late.

Ellen freezes. Dean sees his fingers, that impossible skin of his glowing softly underneath the moonlight, and that's when it hits him. That's the last thing Ellen wants near her, after everything she's seen tonight. She flicks a glance over her shoulder, first at Dean's outstretched hand, then at his face.

Her eyes are cold, hard. _Don't touch me, damn it._

Dean drops his hand back to his side.

Bobby's next, and his features are schooled, held so tight that his face looks almost blank. As soon as Bobby's feet touch the ground his eyes flicker.

The older man steps forward, eyes suddenly blazing, face contorted in rage. He fists Dean's leather jacket, turns him around and slams him up against the side of the beer truck.

Samirah snorts angrily. _What are you doing? Don't let him ---_

_Hush_.

Dean could have stopped him with a touch, could have stepped aside easily.

But he doesn't.

"You dumb bastard!" Bobby punctuates each word by thumping Dean back into the side of the truck. His voice is roughened by anger and sorrow. "What the hell did you do, Dean? What the hell did you _do_?"

"I did what I had to do." Dean straightens up, and there it is again, that eerily calm look on his face. "To get Dad back. And Sam."

Those copper highlights in Dean's eyes might be from the lights in the parking lot, or the moon overhead, but Bobby's not fooled, not for a second. The scars around Dean's right eye seem to glow in the moonlight. He's got a wild, unearthly look to him now, and it's light years away from being human.

"They shouldn't have died that night, Bobby, and you know it." Dean's voice deepens, goes from whiskey smooth to something that vibrates with power. He's showing what he is now. Not human. _Other._ "I'm just making things right, that's all."

_I could have stopped you,_ that tone says. _The only reason you put your hands on me is because I let you. I could kick your ass._

_I still might._

Samirah stands frozen, and so does Ellen. They eye each other warily, waiting for the other one to make the first move.

"You're…you're what? Making things right? Is _that_ what you call this?" Bobby's hands shake. "You damned yourself. You sold your immortal soul, made a deal with some damn demon? Your dad and your brother…they…they wouldn't have wanted this."

Dean doesn't even blink. He shrugs in that casual _don't give a damn_ manner that is pure Dean. That's about the only thing human about Dean that Bobby can see now. He doesn't even have to glance down to see Dean's right hand, those soft, glowing colors swirling together, shadows and copper and gold.

"Doesn't matter what _they _wanted," Dean rumbles. "_I_ made the deal. My choice."

"You're a damn fool, do you know that!" One more slam against the side of the truck, and Dean doesn't even feel it. He stands there, calm and unmoved, staring intensely over Bobby's left shoulder.

"My God," Ellen whispers, and the hair at the back of Bobby's neck lifts up painfully, straight up and out. He senses something, hears breathing, a slight movement, behind him, to his right.

"I don't know what the hell is going on here, Singer," John Winchester drawls roughly. "Get your damn hands off my son."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Yep, gonna stop it right _here_ because I'm evil. But you know that, right? Next chapter is gonna be chock full of the legendary Winchester angst.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 17**_

"D-Dad? S-Sammy?" Dean breathes. He changes in an eye blink, He seems less _Other_ now, more _human_, more hesitant. His eyes are too damn bright, not copper or pale gold, but a startlingly bright green, filled with hope and relief, wild desperation and something else pale and twisting that Bobby can't quite identify.

Ellen looks freaked out, and try as he might Bobby's pretty sure that he's probably got the same exact look on his face. Bobby releases Dean as he steps back and turns to look.

John and Sam look mighty healthy for dead men.

John's just as big and imposing as he was in life, all broad shoulders and dark scuff. Sam's still shaggy, freakishly tall. Come to think of it, he looks just as freaked out as Bobby and Ellen do.

"Dean," Bobby says, almost gently. He's stubborn, just as muleheaded as any Winchester. It's useless, but he just can't stand to see the boy throw himself into the pit, even though it's obviously way too damn late for any and everything. "This isn't right. You _know_ this isn't right."

Might as well be talking to that beer truck. Or that damn black horse. Dean ignores him. He glances up, then ducks his head down again, stares at the ground as John and Sam approach. It's so wrong, so fucked up, Bobby's stomach twists and turns into sour, tight knots as he steps back beside Ellen. They're the only two humans here now, and neither one of them honestly don't know _what _Dean is anymore.

John's face is closed off, unreadable. Sam's features are wide open, a mix of fear and wonder. "You did it, didn't you?" Sam whispers softly as he stares at this older brother. "You came back here and made the deal with that crossroads demon."

Dean doesn't answer. His knees buckle as he steadies himself against the truck, his left shoulder hunched up a little more than his right.

"Son of a bitch. Where did _that_ come from?" John flicks a glance in the black horse's direction, and his face hardens.

Samirah snorts angrily. She paws the ground with her right foreleg and stares right back at John. Her eyes flash copper.

"Dean," John says slowly, carefully. "What happened to you?"

Dean shakes his head, stares down at the ground.

"I asked you a question," John rumbles, and Bobby and Ellen stare at him in disbelief. It's John's command voice. Even after death the stupid idjit still uses it. "Tell me what happened to you."

Dean responds like a good little soldier. The boy straightens up, squares his shoulders. He lifts his head up and stares his father in the eyes, and the brightness of his eyes dims a little, leaves him looking years younger somehow.

"The Colt…" Dean says softly, barely above a whisper.

John quirks an eyebrow at him._ I can't hear you, soldier._

"Damn you, John," Ellen murmurs out loud. Stupid bastard's fucked up his eldest son, twisted the boy's head up so badly he can't think straight.

Dean clears his throat. Then louder: "The Colt blew up in my hand... After you and Sam died…" His voice trails off. He looks young now, younger than Sam, and even more vulnerable.

"Damn," Sam whispers roughly.

John nods. "And?"

"Yellow eyed Demon's dead. Got him right through the heart."

"What happened after that?"

"Bobby…Bobby took me in… He and Ellen looked after me…"

John's face darkens like a thundercloud. "You needed to be looked after?" John snaps, and that's _it_, Bobby feels something snap inside him.

"Damn it, I've had it with you, you stupid idjit ---"

"My family, my son." John says mildly, serenely. "Better mind your own business, Singer."

"Bobby---" Ellen's fingers are on his arm, and when Bobby looks down he realizes that his right arm is raised, hand curled into a fist.

"Mind my own business, huh? For the last three months I made Dean my business because you weren't around, John. You were dead, remember? You and Sam were dead, and your son's head was so twisted up with grief he couldn't think straight!" Bobby roars. "For God's sake, look at him! He lost his hand, he lost his family. What? He's supposed to suck it up like a man, put a Band-aid on his stump, and carry on like a good little soldier? How the hell else did you think he'd be?"

"When we helped Evan, and you went to the crossroads," Sam says slowly, staring at his brother, "I could see it in your eyes even then. You were that close to making a deal yourself, getting Mom back, getting our family back together."

John growls angrily under his breath.

"I thought about it, too," Sam looks at John, and he answers his father's irritated glance with a shrug. "Thought about dealing to get Jess back…"

"Well now," Lillith says cheerily. "The legendary Winchester angst."

That creepy little girl is back. She stands there a few feet away from John and Sam, hugging her big brown teddy bear to her chest, and her blue eyes are a little too bright in the moonlight.

Lillith bounces up and down on her toes. "Well? You gonna hug and make nice? Screw each other? Have a Kodak moment or a Maalox one? Shake hands? _What?_ Getting kind of bored here, fellas."

John turns and looks at her. "And what was your name again, princess?"

"Lillith."

"Lillith," John says flatly, He tilts his head to one side as he looks at Dean. It's clear from John's expression that he knows exactly who and _what_ Lillith is.

Dean's shoulders sag. "I couldn't let…" he whispers roughly. "I couldn't…" His eyes go unfocused. He stares blankly at John and Sam, at them and through them.

"You couldn't let what, Dean?" John's tone is quiet. Too damn quiet.

"Dad, you and Sam…you're…you're all the family I got left. I couldn't let you die."

"So you made a deal with a demon, Dean?" Quiet tone, whiskey smooth rumble that cuts Dean, razor sharp. Dean flinches. "Is _that _what you're telling me?"

John crosses the distance to his eldest son in two strides, fisting both hands in Dean's leather jacket, jerking him up on his feet, pushing him back into the side of the beer truck. Dean goes limp, holds his arms up and out to the sides. John studies the scars around Dean's right eye, then his gaze lingers at that impossible right hand of his.

"You just threw it all away. Is that it? Don't tell me you forgot. Forgot that one of these damn things killed your mother. Destroyed our family ---" John's voice rises, filled with rage and disappointment and that's when Samirah moves, cat-quick, as she lunges at John. She rears up, lashing out with her front hooves, flashing her white teeth and the copper penny brightness of her eyes as she forces the older hunter to step back.

_You don't have to take this from him, _she snarls over her shoulder at Dean. _I told you we could just ride away. I told you…_

"Wait." Dean says out loud. "Wait." He places his right hand gently on her back, and Samirah stops, puzzled.

"Everything I taught you, all the things we've seen over the years, just didn't mean a damn thing, did it, Dean?" John rages. "For you to go and make a deal with some damn thing…"

"You can hate me for this. I get it. I do." Dean exhales noisily as he pushes himself upright. "Wouldn't blame you if you did."

John's broad shoulders shake. "What made you think you could do this, son? Who gave you the right to decide this for us?"

There's a copper flicker in Dean's eyes, faint, but getting stronger. "You did, Dad."

"W-what?"

"_You did. Sam did. Every time you left me and Sam alone while you hunted, I paid for this." _Dean's voice deepens into that unearthly basso rumble. _"Every time I did whatever I had to do to keep us safe and fed until you got back. Every hunt I ever went on with you, every bone I broke, every drop of blood I bled. Every time I took care of both of you, that gave me the right, and I'd do it all over again if I had to."_

"I showed you mine, boychick," Lillith purrs. "Now you show me yours…"

Dean nods. Time to declare himself. He lowers his head, stares at the ground. Samirah stills herself beside him, her eyes still locked on John.

The air around Dean shimmers darkly, from the top of his head to his boots. Battered brown leather shifts and changes to a sleek black leather long coat over a long black cassock, faded blue jeans to slim black pants and black boots. The hood of the long coat is up, casting Dean's features into deep shadow. He lifts his head up, and for the merest second Bobby and Ellen can see the skull beneath that smooth freckled skin, copper in those eye sockets instead of wide bright green.

"Jesus Christ," Ellen whispers.

"That's my boy," Lillith purrs. "Well, we can continue this elsewhere. Got a nice place all set up for you guys." She glances at Bobby and Ellen, and her smile is bright and gleeful. "Sorry. No meatsuits allowed where we're going. Bye bye!"

Lillith waves merrily and everything flares bright white.

Ellen wakes up moments later sitting with her back against one of the tires of the beer truck. 'Good Lord," she grumbles. "Not again. Damn." Bobby's sprawled out on the ground a few feet away. Walking's too much, too soon anyway, so she gets on her hands and knees and crawls over to him.

"Bobby? Hey, wake up. Come on."

"Oh, hell." Bobby huffs a breath. He rolls over on his side, finally finds enough strength to push himself with his hands. He wobbles a little as he sits up. "What about ---"

"They're gone," Ellen grates out. "Even the horse. Everyone's gone."

* * *

_**A/N**_ – more Winchester angst next week, and the other three Horsemen show up. Hey, it's gonna be a party.


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N:**_ This installment is chock full of Winchester angst, so you have been warned.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. Eric Kripke does. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

Lillith's place turns out to be a beautiful, spacious country cabin right in the middle of somewhere. It's high end, light years away from the usual bare bones backwoods cabins in the past. Three bedrooms, indoor plumbing. The kitchen is well stocked with fresh food, canned goods, any and everything they could ever want, which is pretty damn amusing as far as Dean's concerned. He's Death and he's sharing this space with two resurrected dead men, one of whom can't stand the sight of him. Everything, from the cabin itself to the rolling hillsides surrounding the place, is a constant reminder of Dean's deal.

Hours ago, as soon as they arrived, Dean shifted from all black to a long-sleeved purple Henley, faded jeans, and workboots, with just a thought. Sam stood there watching him change with a mixture of awe and wonder on his face that made Dean feel uneasy.

John very pointedly turned his back on Dean and walked off, headed somewhere.

Anywhere that Dean _wasn't _was fine by him.

* * *

_Let's go for a ride,_ Samirah nickers. She romps in the thick green grass out in the pasture, kicks up her heels like she's a yearling all over again.

_We just came back from one._ Dean leans against the wooden fence, turns his face up to the bright blue sky. He can't tell exactly where this place is, but he does suspect it's a step or two past reality. Nowhere in America is _that_ isolated. During the ride Dean didn't see any other humans, no cars on the roads, or planes in the sky, just green rolling hills, picture perfect landscape that goes on for miles and miles.

_Then let's go again._ Samirah dances sideways, ears twitching, her tail swinging lazily from side to side.

_Don't wanna. _Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He rolls his shoulders from side to side. That tight knot of tension between his shoulder blades doesn't loosen up any, but it's not as bad as it was before. Out here, away from John and the confines of the cabin, he almost feels real again.

If Dad doesn't acknowledge him, then he does not exist. Simple as that. Doesn't matter that Dean's twenty eight now, and not ten years old.

It still hurts just as bad.

_What's Fort Douglas?_

_What?_

_Fort Douglas._

_It's a place._ Dean shrugs. _You wouldn't like it. Hardly any grass or hillsides._ He doesn't say any more in the hope that Samirah will take the hint and drop it.

She doesn't. She stops in the middle of the field and paws at the grass with her left foreleg.

_You were little then. Why were you so sad there?_

_I…I made a mistake. I'm not in a sharing and caring mood, all right?_

_This Dad,_ Samirah snorts._ He's not a proper sire._ _Foals are supposed to be taught, not ignored._

_News flash, princess. I'm not a foal. Never have been._

_They never understand you. This isn't anything new. Why do you let that bother you?_

She doesn't understand, of course. Her family accepted her from the moment of her birth. They were elementals, every last one. Her mother was a giant mare, snow white, birthed from blizzards and ice. Her father, a gigantic dark grey stallion formed of wind and hurricanes.

There's the Other part of Dean, _Gaelen_, that seems mildly amused, that pretends none of this matters, even though he still remembers seeing his own father sharpen his axe out in the barn. The old man had murder on his mind that day, which was the main reason Gaelen left home.

Samirah bows her neck like a warhorse. She prances and buck jumps, turns on a dime and makes a high speed run at the fence. Dean smiles, and it even reaches his eyes.

_Finally,_ Samirah thinks to herself. _This boy feels too damn much._

Dean reaches out with his right hand, runs fingers through her long mane, down her side as she runs past him. She misses the wooden fence by scant inches.

"Thought Death was supposed to have a white horse," Sam murmurs softly from behind.

Samirah huffs as she puts her head down, stretches her neck out and races away from the fence. _Funny boy._

Dean closes his eyes as Sam comes near. _No. Please, no…_He clenches his right hand into a fist. The colors flare up as his muscles tighten, then fades back to a soft golden and copper glow as he unclenches his hand.

By the time Sam leans against the fence next to him, Dean's schooled his features into a neutral mask. He looks almost bored, in fact, eyes half-lidded as he lifts his shoulders in a casual shrug. "One probably did." Dean tries to play it off, pretends that sharp ache in his chest every time he sees Sam doesn't matter.

_He's here because of me,_ a small voice inside Dean's head whispers. _Why can't that be enough?_

Sam watches as Samirah wheels around in the center of the pasture. She rears up, paws at the sky with her forelegs. "What's his name?"

_Tall idiot, short on brains,_ Samirah hisses inside Dean's head.

"Sam Winchester, meet Samirah. That's Arabic for 'entertaining companion'. And _he's_ a _she_."

"Oh." Sam looks appropriately flustered, then apologetic. "Sorry," he calls out to the black horse.

_You're still an idiot._

_Behave, will ya?_

_Hmph. _

Sam cocks his head to one side like a confused puppy. "Samirah? Dean, did you ---"

The black snorts again. Dean shakes his head. "I didn't name her. Her parents did."

"Oh." Sam stares out at the pasture, tries to wrap his head around that, and fails.

"I talked to Dad," Sam says at last. "Well, I tried to, at least. You know Dad." Sam leans forward, angles his head towards Dean.

_You know, you fight and you fight for this family but the truth is, they don't need you, not like you need them_, Azazel whispers in the depths of Dean's mind. _Sam, he's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you._

It's a small thing, but it's more than enough for Dean's mask to slip. He looks at Sam sharply and the look is out there, open, raw, and wounded, and it's too late to hide. Dean blinks, and that too casual _I don't give a damn_ look comes slamming down, too little, too late.

Sam's in full on emo mode now. "I don't remember Fort Douglas, but I'm not a kid anymore, Dean. We gotta talk about this. You, me, and Dad."

"Nothing more to talk about, Sammy." Dean rests his chin on his arms as Samirah stops to graze under that huge oak tree yards away. "I did it. It's _done_."

Sam stares at Dean's right eye, at the scars, and at that impossible lightshow of a right hand.

"What?" Dean barks. "Quit staring at me, you perv." That concerned look on Sam's face is not what Dean wants. Nobody should look at him like that. He'd rather see Sam's bitchface. Anger, condemnation, anything but_ this_.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry you went through that, y'know? Sorry you got hurt. Glad Bobby was there for you."

Dean huffs. "I owe Bobby and Ellen. Big time. Bobby was right. I was a total ass when I stayed with him. He's got a few more grey hairs 'cause of me."

Sam smiles a little, nods, and that's when the penny drops on Dean. "Oh, hell," he grumbles. "Friggin' chick flick moment…"

Sam's smile gets a little wider. "Damn straight."

"Crap. You're not mad at me?"

"Mad? No. _Dad's_ not mad. Not really. He's scared, Dean. He's scared of losing the both of us. I told him to cut the bullshit. Told him that we'd have to deal with this, and he'd have to start talking, or I'd shut him out the same way he's shut you out."

"Good luck with that," Dean drawls lazily. Sam frowns a little. There it is again, that wall.

"This thing with Lillith?"

"It's just a job, Sam. That's all."

"Huh. Dude, you really expect me to believe that?"

Dean doesn't say a word. He stares out at the pasture, his expression curiously blank.

"How long did you get?" Sam's voice cracks, just a little. "For the deal, I mean?"

"Do not pass go. Go directly to Jail." Dean shrugs. "I'm officially Hell's bitch. Now and forever."

"Damn." Sam shakes his head. It's not his bitchface, not quite. They stand there in silence for one hell of an awkward moment, watch as Samirah ranges around that huge old oak tree, nipping at the overhanging leaves, playfully scaring the hell out of the squirrels in the tree and the rabbits hiding in the grass, the only other living things in this place.

"Should have known all along, you know? That time in the hospital after the crash, the thing with your heart. You drowning in that lake up in Minnesota, remember? You were _dead_, bro'. You were _gone_. I worked on you until my arms hurt and my head ached. You were blue, cold to the touch. Started talking to you, calling out, begging you not to leave me. Just as I thought you were gone for good you started coughing up water. You came back. You always came back, and now I know why."

"Just like a bad penny, I guess," Dean mutters, and that's enough to bring Sam's bitchface out, full force. Sam pushes himself upright, and Dean ignores him. _Good._

"You're being an ass about this, just like Dad," Sam mutters. He turns around and stalks off, and he doesn't look back.

Samirah slinks up alongside the fence. Dean climbs up, balances himself on the railing, as he grabs a handful of her thick mane, slips onto her broad back. Dean gently nudges her with his heels; he doesn't have to say a word.

They head out in bright sunlight, and the moon is full overhead when they come back.

* * *

"Well," Ellen says briskly. "I'm in the mood for some fried chicken tonight." She opens the refrigerator door, takes inventory.

Bobby growls at her. "Woman, are you still here?"

"Yep." Ellen pulls out that thawed whole chicken, puts it on the counter, reaches out and snags that blue checkered apron off the hook nearby. Bobby glares at her as she puts the apron on.

"It's been three days, Harvelle," Bobby grumbles. "You can go now."

"Nope."

"Don't you have somewhere else to be? The Roadhouse?"

Ellen shrugs. "Jo's in charge. Talked to her this morning. Ash knows he'd better not screw up while I'm gone or I'll have his guts for garters."

"Then why are _you_ still here?"

"What happened to Dean, Sam and John wasn't your fault, Singer."

"And why the hell do you think that?"

" 'cause you're moping around here like you think it is." Ellen goes to the sink, washes the chicken off, then puts the carcass on a wooden cutting board. "You been making friends with Jack and José." Bobby just stares at her. "What, you didn't think I'd notice?"

"What a man does in his own damn house is none of your damn business."

"Yeah, right. You keep telling yourself that. I'm not leaving until you get things straight."

"Good Lord, woman."

"I mean it." She pulls out one of the long, sharp butcher knives from the wooden block on the counter. "You know how Dean was…_is _about John and Sam. This couldn't have ended any other way, and you know it. Quit riding the guilt train, Singer."

"So that's it, huh?"

"Yep. That's it. Now pull up a chair and sit your ass down. I wanna know what's going on inside that head of yours."

"So what if I don't wanna talk?"

Ellen quirks an eyebrow at him. "You really wanna piss off a woman holding a butcher knife, you old fool?"

There's a moment when Ellen's not sure, a moment when she really thinks that maybe she's pushed the old boy a little too much in the opposite direction. That moment passes.

Bobby pulls up a chair, sits down and starts talking.

* * *

A week goes by. Then seven more days, then seven more, and seven after that. Dean goes on long walks and longer rides with Samirah. He pretends he's lost track of the time, but he can't fool himself. It's not even likely that Lillith has forgotten about her prize bitch, her pet Horseman. She'll show up one day soon, Dean's sure of that.

He knows what he has to do. He's just not sure he can do it.

So he pretends. A lot. Pretends none of this matters, pretends that avoiding Sam and John is only right, only natural. Dad will never accept him, not now, not when he knows that Dean's the same thing they used to hunt. Dad can hate him for what he is, and Sam can too, because Dean's being an unreasonable, total asshat about this whole sharing and caring bit, and that's okay, too. _It'll be easier that way_, Dean tells himself.

"I'll leave enough of the world so that you can have a life with them," Lillith told Dean that night.

_They don't need me, not like I need them. _

It's a couple of days past the fourth week, and Dean's out in the pasture, leaning against the fence again. He can't remember the last time he ate _something_, _anything._ Eating isn't so important to him now, so he's content to leave the well-stocked kitchen to Sam and John. Dean doesn't sleep unless he wants to. He hasn't in four weeks.

This life does have its perks.

Samirah's grazing in the middle of the field, and she raises her head as she looks past him, rumbles angrily as the clouds overhead darken. Her eyes flash bright copper, and she doesn't move from that spot.

Dean doesn't move. He can't. Samirah huffs angrily inside his head, but Dean ignores her.

"Dean?"

It's Dad.

Dean raises up, keeps his back turned, and for a moment, just a moment, his mask slips and his fine features show panic, fear, and finally anger. It's all gone in an eyeblink, and the great Dean Winchester wall of _I don't give a fuck and you can't make me_ comes down, settles over him like a shield.

He turns around to look, and Dad's there, and Sam's a few feet away. Dad looks tired. Worn down, eyes bloodshot, and the idea that the old man actually lost sleep over him terrifies Dean somehow.

The wall inside and around him trembles and shakes. He makes eye contact with John, and cracks form in the shield around him.

"I don't…I don't know what else I expected you to do…" John says slowly.

_Don't listen to him, _Dean thinks to himself._ Don't…_

"You've always taken care of me. And Sammy. You never complained. Not once. Dean, I made you grow up too fast, too soon, and that wasn't right." John takes a step forward, and Dean stiffens visibly. He backs into the fence with a thump. He shakes his head no, feels his mouth open, but doesn't have a clue what he wants to say. He shakes his head again.

The wall around Dean crumbles, a piece here, a piece there.

"I've made mistakes." There's a slight hitch in John's voice. "I have, but I think the biggest mistake I could ever make…would be to push you away. Right here. Right now. I might have a problem with the way you did this, but I can't fault you for what you intended. I love you, Dean. Always have, always will."

Dean can't move. He stands there, backed up against the fence, and his muscles tremble so much he seems to vibrate, from head to toe.

He takes one shaky step forward.

_No… _

And then another.

_He's only saying what you want to hear, _that little voice inside Dean's head whispers. _Don't listen, you stupid bastard, don't… _

Dean stands there, swaying on his feet. John's arms are raised slightly, his eyes warm and wet. Sam mirrors John's look, and as soon as Dean looks at both of them he knows he can't fight this anymore.

_This is what I wanted,_ Dean thinks to himself.

Another halting step. _It's all I ever wanted…_

Sam steps in close.

Dean surrenders himself, loses himself willingly in John and Sam's arms.

* * *

Next post this week.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N:**_ Sorry about the delay in posting this. Real Life has been a witch lately. A big thank you to everyone who's lurked, everyone who's read and reviewed. I appreciate it!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 19**_

_I'll come back when there's work to do_, Samirah snarls.

"Samirah, wait --- " Dean says out loud, and it's too late, she's already a streak of black lightning in the distance, gone even before he opens his eyes and turns around. Dean pulls away from John and Sam, turns and stares helplessly at the now-empty pasture.

John just shrugs. Sam says softly, "She's had you to herself all this time. She'll come back, Dean. I know she will."

Dean feels odd and off balance and somehow ashamed, ashamed of wanting his family together so damn much it actually hurts. He can't play this off now, can't pretend none of it matters to him. A part of him, the _Gaelen _part, wanted to ride off with Samirah, but she's gone now. He can't even do that now. Gaelen views John and Sam with a skeptical eye, of course.

Gaelen remembers.

Remembers seeing his own family make the sign of the cross whenever he entered the room. Remembers the harsh scrape of metal against metal as his own dear old Dad sharpened his ax so he could use it on his wayward son.

It all boils down to this: Dean's not what John signed up for. He's that not little blond kid Dad used to hold and tickle before the fire; he's not the kid Dad taught to shoot and fight after. He's the kind of thing that they've hunted all their lives, he's what they've struggled against.

He's the same thing that took Mom.

He's not, not really, but Dean's had a lifetime of hunting and tracking and killing. He hates those sonsofbitches, so by extension, he hates himself, just a little, hates what was in there all along, no matter how right and natural it feels when he's out riding with Samirah.

Dean can't get away from feeling like that, pulled in all different directions. He's reminded every time he glances down at that impossible right hand of his, every time he looks in the mirror and sees those fine thin scars radiating out from his right eye. He's given up trying to figure out how in the hell that even happened. It nags at him, like it's something he should remember, just like he remembers his own name.

So Dean stares at the ground, at the thick green grass underneath his boots. His throat closes up. His heart pounds against his ribcage like it wants out in the worst fucking way possible. He never has been one for sharing and caring much. Sam's one thing; kid managed to get Dean to open up about a few things, about Cassie, and that mess in Fort Douglas. But _Dad_? Open up to _him_, spill his guts out to _Dad_? Dean's spent a lifetime hiding thoughts, feelings, and injuries. Dad had enough to deal with each and every day, without Dean adding his load to the whole mess. He doesn't want to talk about himself.

And now, he's _got_ to. There's no other way around it.

Dean turns away from the pasture. He steps closer to John without realizing it, and stops as John puts his arm around his shoulders. It's a solid weight, heavy and comforting. Dean smells worn leather and gunpowder, that faint spicy aftershave that Dad uses.

"We, uh, got in any beer in the cabin?" Dean whispers hoarsely.

John smiles, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. "Yeah, we do. Come on, Ace."

* * *

Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker, especially when it's the good stuff.

The beer's damn good, some brand Dean has never heard of before. He grabs the first brown bottle out of the refrigerator, twists the top off and inhales the contents in one long swallow while John and Sam stand there looking at him in awe.

Dean really hits his stride when he discovers Jack, José and John (Blue Label, no less) in the kitchen pantry.

Two minutes later Dean adds three six packs of beer to the bottles on the kitchen table.

He stares at the collection and huffs out a laugh. _Damn._ If he were human he'd be a goner, dead from alcohol poisoning, like Nicholas Cage in _Leaving Las Vegas_. But Dean's Death. And John and Sam are gonna live forever.

Ain't life grand.

They sit around the kitchen table, and Sam starts off, talks about what it was like being in limbo.

" 'm Death." Dean hiccups an hour later. "One'a the Four Horsemen of the Apa...Apo...Apoca…you know." Both John and Sam nod. Dean laughs, loose and wild. "One'a us is a chick."

He's comfortably numb in record time, and he quite frankly doesn't give a damn. He leans forward, hunches over his shot glass, fully expecting to see John's face harden, after everything's that's happened, looking for some sign that John and Sam really reject him. 's okay. Everyone leaves him, sooner or later. One way or another.

"Okay," Dad says. He takes a swallow from his own beer bottle as he struggles with the idea, tries to wrap his head around it. Dean can see it in his eyes and that bothers him somehow.

Huh. _Am I that fucking obvious?_

Short answer? _Hell yeah._

"Thought Death had a pale horse," John says slowly. "Your girl is black."

"Dun't…don't believe the hype," Dean slurs. _Way to go, dumbass. You had to get drunk to talk about this. _

_Damn straight. _

Sam looks thoughtful. "So there's more than one Death? Different kinds, like a series of them?"

Dean sways in his chair. "Oh, yeah, Sammy." He stares at Sam for a moment, then at John.

Dean's shoulders sag. " 'm…'m sorry."

"Sorry?" John frowns. "Sorry for what, son?"

"Sorry…about Mom…"

"Dean?"

"Sorry about Jess. I am." Dean's wide-eyed, vulnerable. "If I coulda…if I coulda stopped it…I would have…I couldn't…"

"Dean, hold on now." John puts a hand on Dean's right arm. Sam gently touches Dean's left.

"Let it go, son. That's not your weight. None of that is."

"Yeah…" Dean mutters. "Yeah it_ is_, Dad."

Dean talks. Slowly. Haltingly. He's good at hunter's talk, finding information, doing research, conning civilians and law enforcement. What he's _not_ good at is the personal stuff.

You talk, you fuck things up. Not that they didn't have issues before, but damn it, they didn't talk about the damn things so much, if at all. That was a lesson he learned over and over again.

Tell Cassie what the family business _really_ is, and get dumped.

Tell Sam that you want the family to stay together, and Sam says he wants to go his own way.

_Shut the hell up,_ Dean tells himself. _Don't wanna think about that. Just wanna talk._

So he does.

He talks about the deal, and of course he doesn't mention what Lillith really looks like underneath those pigtails. He doesn't mention what he did to seal the deal either; he keeps those details for himself. Everything else comes out.

The tequila was good. High-end.

Dean felt sorry for that poor little worm, though.

* * *

A day passes, and Samirah's still gone.

Turns out Dean can make himself sober just as quickly as he made himself drunk. Four hours later he's stone sober, as if all that liquor was just water. It's easy and comfortable being around John and Sam now. He's settling into this new arrangement. Feels less weird. Less awkward.

Dean spends the day with John and Sam, but he aches to go out to the pasture and call out Samirah's name until his lungs burst.

Around noon the next day Dean feels a pull in that direction.

She's out there, and her anger charges the air, darkens the sky overhead, makes the hair on his arms rise up. She stalks around the pasture with her head down, and Dean could swear that her mane and tail are bushed up and out like a cat's.

A pissed off cat that weighs two thousand plus pounds.

When she senses him coming Samirah puts her back to him as he walks up to the fence. She walks in the opposite direction, away from him. The wind picks up, and overhead thunder rumbles.

Dean clears his throat and says softly, "Samirah, come on. Don't leave." He doesn't have to say the rest.

_Please. _

_Please don't leave me._

Samirah's ears twitch backwards, and her body reacts before her mind does. She stops dead in her tracks, then she lowers and shakes her head angrily from side to side, disgusted with herself. _Damn._

She jerks her head up and around and glares at him, eyes and nostrils flaring reddish gold. Dean's standing there with that little boy look on his face, all solemn and open and _please, _and she curses herself for being so damn easy.

She puts a snarl in her voice instead: "Every time I leave you get into trouble. So I guess I won't leave. But I won't let them ride."

"I wouldn't ask you that." Dean nods, relieved. "Don't think you're Dad's type. Sam's either."

"Good," Samirah rumbles softly. She turns around, and stalks towards Dean. She leaps the fence, wheels around and walks right up to him. She closes her eyes, leans into him, and Dean does the same. He reaches up, strokes her neck, and Samirah whickers with contentment.

They sense wrongness in the air around them at the exact same time.

"Fuck," Dean whispers. He opens his eyes. Samirah rumbles angrily, jerks her head around.

"Got a job for you, sweetie," Lillith says cheerily. She's a few feet away, dressed in a bright pink pinafore this time. "The flag's up. It's showtime."

She smells like wax crayons, white school paste and strawberry bubble gum, not blood and madness and murder. She doesn't walk over, she _skips_, hugging that creepy ass brown teddy bear to her chest.

"I want you to start here." Her eyes are bright with excitement, as if the rolled up note she hands Dean is a grocery list for a birthday party, instead of the beginning of the end for someone, somewhere.

Dean unrolls the beige parchment, looks at the spiky red handwriting and scowls. It looks like dried blood. "Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania? What the hell?"

"I had a bad experience there once." Lillith's right hand flaps lazily in mid-air. "Won't bore you with all the gory details." She tries to pat Samirah on the shoulder and the black horse deftly sidesteps away from her out-stretched hand.

Lillith frowns. She's pissed. Her eyes go stark white, but that's over in an eyeblink. She picks up that gruesomely precious little girl act right where she left off. "The rest of your crew is waiting there. How you do this is up to you. Artists' choice. Surprise me."

She stands there, watching, smiling a little, and the air around Dean ripples darkly. He's dressed in all black now, black cassock and sleek black leather long coat. Samirah wears her tack now, midnight black leather and bright silver. Lillith's smile gets wider (_Way too many damn teeth_, Dean thinks to himself) as he swings into the saddle.

_Time to pay. Time to go to work._

Dean throws his hood down on his shoulders. He picks up the reins and Samirah sidesteps, her head bowed. _"And where will you be?"_ Dean rumbles, full of barely restrained power.

She shrugs. "Around. Make me proud, boychick."

* * *

It's like old times.

They're somewhere high up on a hillside, and as Dean and Samirah step through Dean knows instantly where they are (_Grandview Avenue, Mount Washington neighborhood_). Downtown Pittsburgh is below, right beyond the Monongahela River. It's beautiful, picture perfect, blue sky, bridges and the city skyline.

People and traffic go by down below and all around them, and no one notices the four riders on horseback.

At least, not yet, anyway.

Tiesen looks up from adjusting the bridle of his huge red stallion. His long thick dreadlocks frame his perfect face like a lion's mane. "About time you showed up, Gaelen."

Chale yawns as he dismounts. "What some folks won't do to get out of work." His big dappled grey whickers a greeting to the black. Samirah answers back as Dean dismounts.

Rika looks just as young and ageless as ever. She sits her huge white mare quietly as the three males engage in what can only be described as a hug. It's brief, but it's manly. They pat each other on the back, and Rika can't help but smile a little. _Boys will be boys._

Dean steps away from Tiesen and Chale and reaches out for Rika's hand. She blushes a little as his lips touch the back of her hand.

"Milady," Dean growls smoothly.

"You look thin, Gaelen," Rika says, almost shyly. "Have you been eating enough?"

Dean nods. "I'm good."

"Okay," Tiesen mounts up. His burgundy robes glow in the bright sunshine. "How do you wanna do this, brother?"

Dean has the lead now, and none of them mind. He doesn't mind being called Gaelen. Gaelen, or Dean, it's all the same now. He walks back to Samirah as Chale mounts his big grey horse.

Dean blanks his mind. Tries not to_ think_.

These are _people_. All around him.

_People._ Living, breathing, moving. On foot, in cars, buses and trucks everywhere. On the bridges, on the streets and in the townhouses all around them.

There's a story to each one, each flare of warm orange body heat he can see with his senses. A heartbeat, a pulse. Somebody's child, somebody's sister.

Somebody's brother. Or father.

"Well?" Samirah snorts as Dean settles into the saddle.

"Uh, Gaelen?" Chale grumbles. "Sometime this year would be nice."

_I have what I want_, Dean thinks to himself. _I have everything and everyone I've always wanted._

_This isn't right. _

It's Sam's voice.

_You know this isn't right._

It's his own voice.

_Your happiness or all those peoples' lives…no contest._

It's Dad's voice.

"GAELEN!" Chale, Rika and Tiesen thunder in unison.

Dean blinks. And it's all so friggin' clear now.

He picks up the reins. Samirah dances in place, agitated, and he can tell that she already knows.

"You don't go in," Dean says quietly to the others. "You don't do anything. Until I say. Unless I say. We'll be right back."

And even as he says it, he knows that last part's a damn lie.

* * *

Sam's out in the pasture, by the fence, and when he turns around Dean's suddenly _there, _standing right behind him, next to Samirah. Dean's right eye glints bright gold, as does his right hand. He slams his right palm flat against Sam's chest, and Sam unravels, bright light streaming from his mouth in wisps and tendrils.

He pleads with his eyes and Dean stares at him blankly. Sam Winchester's image shifts and sloughs off like a second skin as the shapeshifter dies, comes undone in a cloud of bright golden light and shed skin and tissue.

"Well," the thing wearing John Winchester's shape rumbles. "About time you grew a pair, boy."

Samirah turns, her ears pinned flat against her head.

It laughs as Dean turns around. "No harm done, not yet, anyway. We can still pretend that nothing happened."

The 'shifter nods at the airborne debris floating lazily up into the air behind Dean. "I can get a replacement for him. It's not a problem. When you come back from your errand, all will be forgiven. Your precious baby brother will be here, same as always."

It's Dad, but it's not. There's a vicious, hard glint in those brown eyes, a cunning sneer on that face. John Winchester might have been many things, might have looked disappointed and even angry, even after that mess in Fort Douglas, but he _never_ looked at either of his sons like that.

"You're not strong enough to live alone, _Dean_," and the name sounds like a curse word coming out of its mouth. "Everyone knows that. _You_ know that. So why don't you be a good little boy, and get back on that nag of yours and do your damn job, like you said you would."

"I _am_ doing my job," Dean whispers. The 'shifter blinks, and Dean's standing right behind it.

The touch of Dean's right hand on its shoulder is more than enough. Dean tightens his grip, and the 'shifter screams, it curses, as its body lights up from the inside. Its skin goes transparent, ribs glowing like embers. John Winchester's form dissolves, evaporates, into specks of bright golden light and coarse grey ash.

Dean finds himself on his knees moments later, kneeling before a vaguely man-shaped cloud of grey dust and light, and all he can think of is Dad and Sam.

Dean screams.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ Your happiness or all those peoples' lives…no contest. – _Taken from_ What Is And What Should Never Be. _Next update this Sunday.


	20. Chapter 20

_**A/N: #1:**_ 200 reviews! *Does happy dance* Thank you all! Wheeee!

_**A/N #2:**_ The good news is my internet connection is finally up. The bad news is my internet connection was down. I bawled. Like. a. baby.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

The air around Dean fills with clumps of grass and dirt. The wind picks up, and everything goes airborne. It swirls around him, and Dean doesn't even blink.

Samirah stands beside him, calm for once. She lowers her head, puts her chin gently on his shoulder, and she waits, patiently.

_I'm here. I won't leave you._

Dean hears her, a soft echo underneath all the roaring inside his head. He can't _see_ anything, can't f_eel _anything except that hole deep inside him, that huge bottomless freakin' hole in his chest, in his soul, that formed when John and Sam died months ago. It's bigger, deeper, goes right down to his core and beyond. It never went away, not _ever_, even when he looked into those false shining faces, even when he _knew_ he was fooling himself, knew they weren't John and Sam.

He'd known the moment he laid eyes on them.

He _knew, right from the fucking start_, and he doesn't know why he expected this to end any differently.

Dean screams. The ground around him moves and cracks from the sound. The scream is full-throated, pain and sorrow, grief and loss, from the depths of his soul, over twenty two years worth, and then some.

He's Dean and he's _Gaelen_ now, and he can't tell where one begins and the other ends.

Dean screams for his lost loved ones,_ all_ of them: his mom, his dad, and his brother, swept away by bright yellow hellfire and sulfur smoke.

Gaelen screams at the memory of his own mother shrinking away from him with fear in her eyes, at the memory of his grandfather making the sign of the cross as protection each and every time he laid eyes on the young boy.

The sound deepens, ramps up into full-on killing rage. Samirah stands quietly next to Dean through it all, as the air around them both thickens and churns, turns blood red with anger. The ground underneath their feet trembles and cracks, and the black horse doesn't turn a hair as the air around her darkens, and then just as suddenly, clears.

There's nothing left but a huge crater, a perfect circle fifty feet in diameter, twenty feet deep.

* * *

Some time later a small black girl walks up to the edge of the crater. She's beautiful, large hazel eyes set in a heart shaped face. She's wearing a pink Hello Kitty tee shirt, blue jeans, barefoot, with blue rubber flip flops, holding onto a large brown teddy bear by one leg. She peers over the edge into the crater, and the frown on her face darkens her features. No seven year old should ever have an expression like that.

Five feet behind her the air shimmers, gold, black and copper.

"Hello, freak," Dean drawls softly.

Lillith jumps, then settles herself. She turns around slowly, glares at the black hooded figure and the huge black horse standing behind her. There's not one speck of dirt or grass on either one of them. They're both still unnaturally perfect.

His face is in deep shadow. Dean raises his head to stare at her.

Unbelievably enough, Lillith starts pouting. "I work and I slave over human sacrifices on a hot black altar, go out and find the best shapeshifters money can buy, and do you appreciate it?" She stamps her foot. "Nooo, you don't."

Dean smiles at her. His eyes are a glowing mix of copper, gold and bright bright green. He looks calm, serene, inhumanly beautiful.

Samirah nudges him very gently with that velvet black nose of hers, and his smile broadens as he strokes her well-muscled neck.

Lillith gags as her throat closes up and several small bones in her neck snap like dry twigs. She's lifted up and back by something she can't see. Her back arches; only her heels touch the grass.

"Where's my Dad and my brother?" Dean says quietly. Too quietly. He releases his hold on her and Lillith stumbles forward, gasping.

"What you had…was the best you're _ever _gonna get," Lillith croaks. "Those shifters were _special_. They were keyed to you…they acted the way you thought John and Sam would act. The way you _wanted_ them to act. There was no harm done. You got what you wanted. What you _needed_."

"Way wrong answer." Dean murmurs softly. Samirah nods her head in agreement. Dean gestures with his left hand and Lillith stops short, frozen.

"_**WHERE THE HELL IS MY FAMILY, BITCH!"**_ Dean roars. The sound of his voice rips the air around her. Lillith stumbles back as the left side of her face shreds, exposing her teeth and jawbone. Her entire left side is slashed and torn, down to her waist, revealing dark blue skin like worn leather, crisscrossed with thin silver lines and runes.

Samirah pricks her ears forward alertly.

Lillith grows, gets taller, impossibly thinner. Her eyes fade from hazel to stark white. She grunts, disgusted, as she paws at what's left of her little girl face with clawed hands. The pink tee is ruined, and her blue jeans barely cover her knees now.

_Too easy. _Dean thinks to himself._ This is too damn easy. _His power rises up inside him, sweeps aside that quiet voice. It's cautious, not fearful, but it's_ human_, and that's not what Dean wants to _be_, not right now. Lillith is going to die slow and painful, as slowly and as painfully as _inhumanly_ possible, and maybe after he finally kills her he can resurrect her and do it all over again.

He's _Death_, after all. If that isn't one of the perks of the job, it should be.

It_ will_ be.

And after that, since she had help, maybe he'll pay her followers a visit. The demons, the 'shifters. Rip the fuck out of her world just like she ripped his up.

A huge hank of hair falls over her white eyes. "If I could have gotten my hands on them, you dumb bastard, I would have." She pulls at her hair, jerks out handfuls in a fit of rage, thick tangles of auburn caught in her yellowed claws. "I had to make do."

Dean rolls his eyes. Her right leg cracks in two, a greenstick fracture. Lillith's eyes widen in shock. She hops backwards on her one good leg, awkwardly, and she lands on the ground on her ass with an awkward thump.

_Think for a moment, jackass. _There it is again, that damn, irritating _human_ voice._ Why the hell would she show up like this? Why would she ---_

Lillith raises her head, stares Dean in the eyes.

Lillith laughs.

The left shoulder of Dean's black leather coat and black cassock is suddenly riddled with pinpoints of bright white light. Bright diamonds strewn on midnight black leather, in the shape of a handprint, small and delicate.

_(whitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhite)_

It's all around him. It's all he sees. He breathes it in

_(whitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhite)_

and out, sharp and blinding. Dean's back arches painfully.

_(whitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhitewhite)_

flares up bright and blinding in his blood, blanking out his brain.

His knees buckle, and he senses it when Samirah lunges past him, snarling. That's not the worst part. He hears the black horse scream out in pure rage.

"Away with you, nag!" Lillith bellows. Dean hears the thud as a heavy body hits the ground in front of him. He's headblind. He can't see Samirah. He can't sense her anymore.

He can hear her, hear those huge lungs as they struggle to breathe, in and out, shuddering, shaking.

He's on his hands and knees again, palms pressed into the scorched ground. White light pours out of Dean's ears, his eyes, his mouth. He pants like a dog on a hot summer day. He blinks, wants to claw at his eyes, do something to let the light out, but he can't raise his arms. The light inside him weighs him down, and this only the beginning. He pushes against it, feels his power dissolve around the edges into sharp edges bits and pieces as the white light eagerly feasts on what's inside him.

His skin color fades, as does the spray of freckles across his nose and skin. Dean shudders and shivers as his body temperature plummets. Lillith chuckles. He can't see her, but he can hear the smile in her voice.

He cocks his head to one side as he hears the sound of her tendons knitting themselves back together, broken bones cracking as they reform. "Just another failure, Dean. You had a really comfortable gig as Hell's Bitch, and you couldn't even do _that_ right."

Dean stares upwards at her blindly, but the sound he's really focused on is Samirah's breathing nearby. Weak, forced.

"…f-fuck you ---"

"But you already _did_, remember? _Oh, baby._ Tastiest night of my life."

Flashes of naked blue skin pressing against his body, her tongue in his mouth, the sting and burn of his skin as she latches onto him with her claws. Sulfur and bitter acid flood his mouth and Dean feels his gorge rise.

_Move, you sonofabitch. Move. Don't just kneel there like some bitch. Move your ass. Do something…_

"Heaven doesn't want you either, so I wouldn't even think about going over there and making a deal with _them_, you see," Lillith chirps. "Imagine the kind of reception you'd get, you and that tarnished soul of yours. You killed poor old Zachariah, remember? Of course, that's even assuming you'll survive this." Her voice deepens, goes from little girl cheerful to impossibly deep, filled with unholy glee. "_Which you won't._"

Dean moves. Just a little. His right hand slides forward, and his fingertips touch something sleek and trembling. He can see the black color in the whiteout of his mind. Samirah. Still alive. Still breathing.

"Not so fast, big boy," Lillith grumbles. "That's so _rude_. I'm talking now."

The ground rumbles underneath as something moves through the earth.

He feels it when the first one breaks through.

The tentacle curves around his body, slowly, almost lovingly. They're all around him now, all over him, on his legs, around his wrists and ankles. Dean snarls as one tentacle brushes over his hair, settles around his neck and pulls tight.

Dean bleeds white and gold into the air as the tentacles dig hungrily into his skin.

"You're gonna die in this place," Lillith says happily. "You and your girl."

Dean blinks, his eyes icy white with light. He tilts his head upwards towards the sound of Lillith's voice as he's pulled down even further on his hands and knees.

Dean laughs.

Lillith blinks.

It's a deep, rumbling sound. Fierce, and somehow happy.

Dean laughs, even as the tentacles wrapped around his body tighten up even further. Even as his skin glows, goes from white to shifting patterns of copper and gold. His eyes flash brilliant green, then copper and pale gold, bright and merciless.

"You know something, skank? You talk too fucking much. _I'm Death_. You want what I've got? Here. Knock yourself out."

The handprint on Dean's left shoulder flares up, as the white light inside him tries to keep pace. It swells and expands as he feeds it.

Lillith screams as Dean pushes outward, and his light sinks into the pores of her skin. He takes her apart, bit by bit, and on one level he's not at all surprised at what he finds.

This_ isn't_ her. It's another 'shifter, one with just enough juice behind it to imitate the bitch.

The tentacles tighten around him, but as fast as he gets rid of one, fifty more take its place. The white light feeds hungrily on Dean's power, the tentacles bleed him out into the open air. It's a race. A race to see who will weaken first, which one will outlast the other.

Dean's fueled by pure rage now, fed by memories he refuses to give up.

He remembers the soft feel of his mothers lips against his forehead as she tucked him in at night.

He remembers the way the skin around John's eyes crinkled when he smiled.

He remembers Sam's bitchface, all worry and concern that was gloriously, uniquely _Sammy_.

He remembers the soft velvet blackness of Samirah's muzzle as she nuzzled him playfully.

Copper and gold and green and black rise up inside him, crashes against a tidal wave of white obliteration.

The space that Lillith's land and cabin occupied, _somewhere_, _somewhen_, disappears in a thunderous blaze of golden light.

* * *

FOXNEWSHOME - US

Sunday, June 28, 2009

West Nicholson, Florida

Local sheriffs departments and television stations (including our FOX affiliate in the area) have received hundreds of calls from worried residents. According to eyewitness reports, the night sky over this sleepy tourist town turned gold and copper around nine pm. Callers described the phenomena as an unusually violent lightning storm with churning cloud formations, high winds and thunder. West Nicholson is located in the southernmost tip of Florida.

The storm was seen as far away as Miami and Fort Lauderdale.

Fox News has also received various amateur videos of the phenomena. The national weather service stated that the forecast that night was for clear skies, and calm winds.

THIS IS A BREAKING NEWS STORY

The already rattled nerves of Florida residents in the southernmost tip of the state were shaken even further by a six point one earthquake that

occurred in the middle of the night. There have been reports of minor damage but no fatalities.

* * *

FOXNEWSHOME - US

Monday, June 29, 2009

West Nicholson, Florida

A gigantic sinkhole measuring fifteen hundred feet in diameter has swallowed up part of the West Nicholson Recreational Center, which included boating and scuba diving facilities located at Lake Campbell. At this time there is speculation that five divers and six pleasure boats that were using the facilities have gone missing. Police and city officials have declined to comment at this time.

* * *

Bobby has his hand on his shotgun before he's even fully awake. Rumsfeld2 barks again, and it's a curious sound, one that makes Bobby frown a little. It's not the dog's usual greeting to a wayward coyote that might wander through the yard. It's certainly not even the big Rottie's welcoming rumble to some idjit who decided to jump the fence and help themselves to all the scrap metal they could carry away. This sound is friendly, almost puzzled.

Ellen Harvelle's been gone for over a week now. Bobby's damn sure whoever this is, it isn't her.

Rumsfield2 whines again, and Bobby pads through the darkness down the hall, through the kitchen. He doesn't need to turn on any lights; he could walk through his house blindfolded and not bump into anything. He pauses at the kitchen door, readies himself with his hand on the light switch for the floodlights out in the yard.

Bobby takes a deep breath, and it's showtime. He flips the switch, and the yard is illuminated in bright light as he throws open the back door and brings the shotgun up in one smooth motion.

Rumsfeld2 sits down, looks back over his shoulder at Bobby.

Bobby stops and stares at the black horse.

_He asked me to bring him here,_ this familiar voice inside Bobby's head says wearily. The critter's obviously had better days. That once sleek black coat is rough and dry, marked with circular white scars. Her eyes are blackened, dirty copper. She stares at Bobby dully as the human lowers his shotgun.

_He asked me to ---_

She hangs her head, closes her eyes. Her legs buckle, but the animal steadies herself, refuses to go down. Not yet anyway. If she collapses now she'll roll over on the man on her back, and that's something Bobby somehow knows she's not going to do.

Her rider is slumped over her neck, his fingers twisted up in her long thick black mane. Bobby sees battered brown leather, faded blue jeans and workboots, dark blond spiky hair, pale skin marked with blood and bruises and the same round scars. What scares the hell out of him are the eyes: half-open, staring, blank white. Sightless.

"My God," Bobby mutters. "Dean?"

* * *

Next post: Thursday.


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N:**_ Gee, I meant Thursday a week from now. Kidding! Just kidding!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 21**_

"Uh…Dad?"

John smiles a little as he swings at the bay window with the chair. "Yeah, Sam?"

"You _do_ know what the definition of insanity is, right?"

The window flexes, but it doesn't break. The chair bounces off in one piece, like it has for the last three hundred seventy eight times.

Sam knows because he started counting.

John stands there staring at the window for a moment, and he's not even breathing heavily. He looks down at the chair and smirks. "It's just something to do, son."

"Uh huh." Sam jams his hands into both pockets. He fidgets, frowns a little, and then blurts out: "You think Dean's okay?"

John freezes just as he lifts the chair up for another whack at the window. When John's in motion like that it's hard to read him. Now that he's still Sam can see skin around his eyes crinkle, just a little. They're smile lines, usually. Worry lines this time.

John stares straight ahead for a moment. "Dean's fine. He has to be." John swings the chair again, with a little more added force than last time.

Three hundred seventy nine.

"But what if he's---"

"Sam. Dean's not dead."

"He's not dead, but he's not fine, either. Can't you feel it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can," John grits out, and he swings again.

Three hundred eighty.

"And how are my little mud monkeys today?" Uriel booms out from behind. John tightens his grip on the chair, turns in the direction of that fucking irritating voice and swings.

Swing and a miss.

Uriel holds the chair with one hand as he pulls it out of John's grip. He's smiling, and the sight of that smile sends a chill down both Winchesters' spines.

John scowls. "What the hell's got you so damn happy?"

"We're going on a little trip. And were it not for that, I would smash you into the walls just like you've done all the chairs and furniture." Uriel smiles like the prospect of doing that would suit him just as well.

"What makes you think we're going anywhere with you?" Sam says.

"What makes you think you have a choice? Or that you could even stop me?"

The air behind Uriel shimmers, faint and silvery, and the people standing there when the glow fades are two that John and Sam have never seen before. The woman is slender, with long red hair down to her shoulders. She's dressed in blue jeans and a khaki shirt.

The man on the other side of Uriel is tall, dark haired, with startlingly bright blue eyes. John takes one look at him and snorts out a laugh. Dude looks like Lieutenant Columbo, rumbled tan raincoat and all.

"Uriel," the woman says warningly. She shakes her head and frowns slightly.

"You have no idea what it's been like looking after these two," Uriel growls as he puts the chair down. "They need to be taught to respect their betters."

Sam and John both laugh when they hear that one.

The woman sighs. "Teaching them manners is _not_ your assignment. Am I clear, Uriel?"

Uriel grumbles. "Yes."

"Good." The redhead stares at John and Sam and smiles a little. "My name is Anna. This is Castiel." Columbo nods. Sam and John just stare at them all. "You're already met Uriel."

"You're in charge, right?" John drawls.

Anna nods."I am."

"Good. Because we need to talk about my other son, Dean."

"In that case, I'd like for you and Sam to join us on the back deck," Anna says with a smile. She glances behind her, through the kitchen. The door leading out back unlocks itself and swings open slowly. "Dean is the reason we're here. We need to talk."

* * *

"guh…gnuh…" Dean moans a little, deep in his throat, like a trapped animal. Ellen wrings out the cloth, places it on his forehead, and Dean flinches at her touch.

"…sign…sign of the…devil…" he whispers. "…devil…" Dean twists his left wrist, his chest and ankles against the wide leather straps holding him down on the bed.

There's no need to strap down Dean's right hand; he doesn't have one anymore. That shifting lightshow of a hand is gone now; all he has left is a stump.

"It's okay, Dean," Ellen murmurs out loud. "It's all right. You're safe now. You're safe."

Part of that is the truth. He is safe now. As for the rest of it, it's a damn lie, and Ellen knows it. She blinks. Her eyes blank out, glaze over, as she wipes the sweat from his face and neck, as she says soothing words over and over again to the tormented soul strapped down in the sickbed. When she gently touches those curious round scars on his neck Dean bucks up, arches his body against the straps.

"…tainted…something tainted…" Dean murmurs. Those impossibly long, dark eyelashes of his flutter wildly; Ellen sees those fine thin scars around Dean's right eye, sees the blank white of his eyes instead of bright green.

_It's not fucking fair,_ Ellen thinks to herself fiercely. _It's not. He's blind. On top of everything else, he's blind. It's like the damn universe is taking him apart, bit by bit._

Dean's lips move. They're chapped, pale, bruised like every other square inch of his body. "…sorry…'m sorry…"

Ellen freezes. "Dean?"

"…not…n - not…"

"Dean, can you hear me?"

"…not…Dad…"

"Dean?"

"…not...Sam…" Dean mutters. He raises his right arm, leads with his right. He's reaching for someone, lost loved ones, forever out of his grasp. When Ellen reaches out, touches his stump, Dean settles himself, but he still murmurs and moans to himself in broken words and sentences.

Ellen doesn't move away. "It's okay, Dean," she murmurs out loud. It's a comforting lie, the only thing she has at the moment. "It's all right. You're safe now. You're safe."

* * *

The blue and white striped canvas canopy flaps slightly in the wind. Bobby steps back, admires his handiwork. Pretty good for a rush job. Pretty damn good.

"Easy," Bobby murmurs softly. "Easy there. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The black horse snorts when she hears that. She's on the ground now, in the shade, with her forelegs bent neatly in front, her hind legs tucked underneath her. She looks faded somehow, dulled out. Her eyes are still the color of dirty pennies. That sleek black coat is dull, washed out, marked with those white circular scars around her neck, legs and back. It's a far cry from the spirited, gleeful creature he encountered at Lloyd's Bar at the crossroads, and Bobby doesn't even want to think about what kind of critter made those scars. She hasn't spoken inside his head since she arrived with Dean on her back, and now she's resting on her belly with her neck stretched out, her chin on the ground.

Hours before she waited patiently as Bobby untangled Dean's fingers from her mane, steadied herself while Bobby slid Dean off the saddle and half-carried, half walked him into the house. As soon as the door closed the black collapsed, and somehow Bobby was not surprised to find that her tack and saddle somehow disappeared into thin air when he came back out to have a look at her.

It's warm today, with a slight breeze, but laying in direct sunlight like that can't be good, so an hour ago Bobby tried cooling the black horse off with a garden hose. Good thing he didn't try to touch her. When the water hit her body it turned to steam.

Bobby stood there for a moment, thinking, and then he dragged the tall metal frame and the canvas out of the shed and set it up over the horse. He got it as a trade from one of his regular customers, figured he could use it as a sun shade while working out in the yard.

He sets the bucket of water down next to her, and she opens her eyes again and grunts when he doesn't move away. Bobby sets the pan of oats and sliced apples down next to the water bucket and he could swear the animal's eyes widen slightly, as if in surprise.

"Hell," Bobby says out loud. "I don't know if you eat. I don't know what you need."

She huffs, shakes her head from side to side, and then rests her chin on the ground again and closes her eyes.

That's clear enough. Whatever else she needs, she's not gonna tell him.

Bobby nods. "Fair enough." He gives Rumsfeld2 a rough pat on the head as he passes the big Rottweiler lounging on the back porch. The dog grins at him happily and goes back to watching the horse, and that's the damndest thing Bobby's ever seen.

Rumsfeld2 was trained to hunt and kill the supernatural, like Rumsfeld before him. The thing is, Rumsfeld2 apparently likes the black horse. He never growled at her, just sat and looked at her with this slightly goofy, doggy grin on his broad face.

_Maybe he's in love,_ Bobby thinks to himself as he closes the kitchen door behind him.

* * *

All the sees is white…

"Sign of the devil. Look at those eyes."

…all he hears is voices coming at him from out of the blankness around him.

"Do you see the way his eyes look? There is something tainted about this child…"

He hears his father out in the barn…

"Your Dad, he's in here with me."

…hears the sharp scrape of metal against metal

"He's gonna tear you apart."

…as Father sharpens his ax.

"He's gonna taste the iron in your blood."

He can't move. They're holding him down.

He didn't want to come to this place. Didn't want to be with these people…

"Dean?"

…but the other part of him did.

"It's okay, Dean. You're safe."

This isn't what Gaelen wants. This isn't what Gaelen wants at all. He hears his father's heavy footsteps, can feel the ax blade slice shining and merciless through the air.

"Dad, Dad, don't you let it kill me."

Gaelen can't tell where he begins and the other one ends.

* * *

Bobby knows he's screwed.

One moment Bobby was alone, out in the yard, checking the wards along the edge of the house. The black horse still lay underneath the canopy, and Rumsfeld2 hadn't moved from the porch. In the next moment the hair on the back of Bobby's neck prickles with the sense of _Other_ in the air. He doesn't want to turn around, but he has to. He can't stand there like that all damn day.

The girl is tall for her age. Twelve maybe, by the look of her, shoulder length blonde hair, ageless hazel eyes. The air around her shimmers, highlights the pale bejeweled robes she has on. She stands there quietly, looking up at him with this quiet smile on her face.

"Lillith," Bobby says out loud, and the young girl laughs.

Bobby glances over at the black horse then. Might be too much to ask for a little help here?

The black is up on her feet, all right, but she's not alone. A large white horse stands calmly next to her, gently nuzzling her neck and muzzle. Two riders quietly sit their horses nearby; a tall black man on a large red horse and a broad Hispanic male mounted on an equally large dappled grey.

"Did he just insult you, little sister?" the black man says with a smirk.

The girl nods. "He thinks I'm Lillith."

"Shame about that," the other man says gruffly. "Think you ought to show him otherwise."

"Well if you're not Lillith," Bobby snaps roughly, "who the hell are you?"

She's suddenly standing right next to him, her slender right hand on his arm. He shudders as her fingertips brush the top of his hand.

The young girl smiles at Bobby. "We are the Horsemen, human, and you have one of our own inside your dwelling."

Bobby feels himself weaken all over. His stomach growls, a loud, terrible sound, as his body shrivels and becomes lighter. Darkness wells up all

around him and he falls backwards into it.

* * *

TBC next week.


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N:**_ Dean/Gaelen as seen through the eyes of Sam Winchester. Extreme Sam angst deserves a chapter all by itself.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, not for profit.

* * *

Angels are dicks.

Sam knows it now. _Finally._ He'd been fooling himself all along, and now he knows better. Forget Michael Landon in _Highway to Heaven_, or Della Reese and Roma Downey in _Touched By An Angel. _

There's no explanation, no warning.

Out on the deck Sam feels warm sunlight on his skin, breathes in what seems to be fresh country air. As soon as he sits down Anna reaches out and puts her two middle fingers between his eyes.

Castiel does the same to John.

The world pulls away from Sam in the blink of an eye.

And the first thing he sees is Dean.

They called him _Gaelen _back then, and it's a shock to see him like this. There's no swagger, no mischievous gleam in those wide green eyes. Hair's a little longer, chin length, bleached sandy blond by the sun. Other than that he looks exactly the same, right down to those broad shoulders and bow legs, but there's a wariness to him that tugs at Sam's heart. Gaelen is quiet, reserved around people.

Sam knows the look. He was that way at Stanford at first, but this is _worse_. Sam fit in, over time.

Gaelen_ never_ does.

The only time he ever smiles is when he's around animals, especially horses.

Sam sees Dean -- no, _Gaelen –_ leaving home just as his own family plots to murder him. He's strange. He's not one of them.

Sam can relate.

Gaelen wanders from place to place, always alone except for the company of the horses he cares for. The sight of Gaelen being stoned to death by his so-called friends and neighbors is a hard thing to watch. The black horse comes for him in a swirl of lightning, hurricane force winds, flame and the screams of the dying. Torn and bruised flesh and spilled blood shift into a midnight black cassock and a sleek hooded black leather greatcoat.

The first thing Sam thinks is, _Huh. Dean's wearing a hoodie._ That's something Dean wouldn't have been caught dead in before.

Poetic irony is a purebred bitch.

The hood frames his face, darkens the air around him. Sometimes Sam can see the skull beneath that familiar freckled flesh.

He watches Gaelen and the black horse over the years, and it suddenly occurs to him that he's jealous of the beast.

_He's my brother,_ Sam thinks to himself. _Mine._ And somehow he knows the black would answer: _But he was mine long before he was ever your brother._

They're soul mates, created for one another. Sam gets it.

Doesn't mean he likes it.

The black horse moves cat-quick, ears pricked alertly, her tail like a flag behind her. The air churns, lightning flashes in the air around her, shimmers over her impossibly black sleek coat. Wild weather reflects her moods, but her anger is never directed at Gaelen.

He visibly relaxes as he looks into those deep copper eyes, as he gently strokes the curve of her massive swan-like neck. The black horse lips at Gaelen's fingers, ruffles his hair with her nose. She's fierce with everyone else, gentle and playful with him. They bicker back and forth at each other with obvious affection. Her eyes are penny bright, and Gaelen's eyes flash green and copper in return.

Sam remembers seeing the first time Dean slid onto a horse's back, and he was so free and easy, like he was born to the saddle, so relaxed around the damn animals (_too big, too unpredictable, too noisy_) when Sam was nervous and wanted nothing to do with them. They were just kids then, that first time, and Sam knew that Dean had never been on a horse before. Ever.

At least, not in _this _life.

There's no soundtrack to this movie. The whole thing plays out in a blaze of images behind Sam's head. He couldn't plead for a break if he wanted to.

Sam watches.

Watches Gaelen and the other Horsemen, lovely, ageless Famine, magnificent War, burly Pestilence, watches as Gaelen brings death, _is_ Death to millions and millions of people all over the world.

He's good at it. Damned good at it, intense and determined, as good as he ever was on the hunt. Some things never change. Gaelen's not so shy anymore. Sam sees Dean's swagger in Gaelen's walk now, sees other flashes of Dean in there. Sam can't tell whether it's Gaelen's whim or not, but Death is apparently not for everyone.

"I know what you are." The black boy doesn't flinch. He's rail-thin and raggedy, but he's got the look of a survivor. He hates himself for it. "You took my family."

"I did." Gaelen nods.

"You took all of them. Everyone I ever loved. Everyone but me."

"If you're still here, then it wasn't your time."

"Take me, too. You have to take me."

Gaelen shakes his head as the black horse paws the ground. She's bored, wants to be elsewhere. "It doesn't work that way, boy."

And like a moth to a bright flame, a certain yellow eyed demon is drawn to Gaelen.

"None of this concerns you, Horseman." Azazel smirks inside his stolen skin, the boy's dead father. His fingers dig into the boy's neck. "Don't wanna seem rude or anything, but you've done your job. Now be off with you."

_I spared you_. Gaelen stares at the doomed boy. _I spared you for this?_

Gaelen saves the boy the only way he knows how, by releasing him from his flesh, and the last thing the child says in this life is "Thank you."

It bothers him. It doesn't seem fair, and it's not enough. Gaelen could just turn away, unconcerned, but that encounter seems to spark something inside of him. He tracks down Azazel's followers with a vengeance, saves hundreds of human lives, whether he really intends to or not.

The other Horsemen are his family now, and after that business with that dark haired bitch with the knife, after Gaelen and the black horse are nearly killed, the thing he does next is so Dean-like, it doesn't surprise Sam at all.

Gaelen leaves to protect his family, goes to hunt the yellow-eyed sonofabitch down.

Fast forward to Devil's Gate in Wyoming, and Sam watches as he and John are swept away in a wave of hellfire, burned to ashes in the blink of an eye. That's not the worst of it.

Sam struggles against whatever's holding him in place, makes a muffled noise of pain and grief when he sees Dean point the Colt at the Demon, and the damn thing blows up in Dean's hand.

There's no explanation from the angels, no expression of comfort, not even pity. They just sit there, staring at John and Sam, and Sam can somehow sense that Uriel has a slight smirk on his face.

The Demon's dead, but Dean isn't. And it's obvious he wishes he was. Bobby Singer stops him from throwing himself into the ashes of his family's funeral pyre, and it's all too much. Sam can't look away. Dean's broken, busted up beyond repair. He's scarred, inside and out. That large silver washer ring of his is gone, blown to bits along with his right hand.

Dean doesn't want to live, doesn't want to get better. He tries to drown himself, with help from Jack and José, and Sam sees it in Dean's eyes, sees the exact moment when he thinks of the crossroads, drugs Bobby, and heads out to sacrifice himself.

The black horse shows up again.

_You're my rider, Gaelen. Only you, and no one else._

So does Lillith.

"You can have John and Sam back. All you have to do in return is just one little thing, the thing you were born to do, Dean. The thing you were created to do in the first place. Ride. You and your girl. You ride when I say, against whomever I say. It's such a small thing, really. I'll give you time to think it over."

Later on Dean kills the angel Zachariah, an act of violence and rage apart from the deal, the power of the Colt somehow manifesting itself in the form of Dean's ghostly right hand. Sam's heart lurches in his chest. The universe seems to delight in taking Dean apart and putting him back together, never mind that he's still broken and damaged, and the parts they've jammed in are sharp-edged and don't fit quite right.

Bobby and Ellen show up at Lloyd's Bar to stop Dean, but it's like trying to stop a force of nature. Dean accepts Lillith's offer. He seals the deal with the same frightening single-mindedness he showed when he was hunting. The air around him changes, worn leather, faded blue jeans to sleek black hooded leather, and his green eyes blaze copper once more.

Sam hears John grunt, a deep, disgusted noise that makes the fingers of Sam's right hand twitch. It's a judgmental sound, full of disapproval. Making deals with demons. It's unseemly. _Thought I taught you better than that, boy,_ John thinks and Sam knows it.

Another blow, when Sam and John aren't what they seem, and Dean rebels against Lillith, raging, his eyes blazing with power.

Sam comes back to himself with a jerk. He sits blinking underneath the fake sunlight, and when he glances to his left he sees that John's face is blank. It's not his game face. Right now Sam can't read his father, and that makes his gut tighten.

And all Sam can think about was he and Dad had occupied the same space for God only knows how long. And they never argued during all this time. Not once. Dean would never see it, never even know about it.

Sam knows that he's going to break the record, shoot his all time personal best straight to hell.

And he just doesn't give a damn.

Uriel eases that smirk of his, just a little. Castiel looks attentive, but there's no real concern on his face. It's all a lie.

"Free will is at the heart of all this." Anna looks from Sam to John. "You have a choice. You can move on."

"Move on to where?" John says. Sam stares at him, tries to gauge this mood he's in.

Anna smiles quietly. "It's the great mystery. I'm not permitted to give details about it. It's one option."

"What…" Damn. His throat feels like it's about to close up. Sam takes a deep breath, clasps his hands together to hold himself down. He has to. Anna leans forward, still smiling.

Sam wants to strangle her. Her first, and then that fool Castiel. Uriel next.

And then John.

"What about Dean?"

"If you choose to move on, you'll never see him again, Sam. I'm sorry, but that's the way this works." Anna sits back in her chair. "There is another option. You can help us. Help us convince Dean to walk the right path."

Uriel grunts. Anna and Castiel totally ignore him.

Sam huffs. "Right path? You mean _your_ path. Dean killed this Zachariah. One of yours. Why would you even want to help my brother after that?"

Castiel shrugs. "We don't hate Dean for what he did, Sam. You have to believe that."

Sam laughs, low and mocking. "How fucking stupid do you think I am?" He doesn't even glance over at John.

Castiel blinks.

"Well." Anna stands up, as do the other two. "We'll give you time to think about this. Time to talk it over."

"I've heard that before," Sam snaps, and the sarcasm is lost on them as the three angels disappear in a haze of bright white light.

"Dad?"

John just sits there, staring blankly at the deck planks at his feet.

Sam sticks his chin out, suddenly defiant, as his right hand curls up into a fist. "You can't be serious about ditching Dean like this. Dad? Tell me you aren't---"

John raises his head, stares Sam directly in the eyes, and in that moment, Sam knows.

He crosses the distance between himself and his father in a heartbeat, and he barely feels the crack of his knuckles against John's mouth.

"You can't do this!" Sam's blood pressure is up, adrenaline crackles through his nervous system, raw and jagged. All he can think about is _Dean_. Dean never left him, no matter how many times Sam did, one way or another. "He's your son. Your eldest son!"

"Is he, Sam? Is he really?" John huffs. He touches his split lip, stares at the blood on his fingers and the corners of his mouth quirk up into a slight smile.

John stands up.

Hours later, Sam Winchester is on his knees, bruised and bloodied, but unbowed.

Sam drew first blood. John draws last.

* * *

Next: Dean, Samirah, and the Horsemen at Bobby's place. And the apocalypse is still on.


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N:**_ Dean and the Horsemen as seen through the eyes of Bobby Singer and Ellen Harvelle.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 23**_

He looks the same, but he's not. Ellen knows that all too well. These fine thin scars around his right eye, those high cheekbones, spiky dark blond hair.

And his mouth.

Yeah, Ellen's thought about kissing that full mouth, wondered what it would feel like to lay with Dean, to be with him, hear him whisper to him in that low, deep rumble of his. She's only human, but over the past few months she's come to think about Dean as though he's_ her_ son, not John Winchester's eldest. Even laying there all pale, with that spray of freckles across his nose, there's a wild beauty to the boy, but even that can't disquise the fact that Dean's broken. Maybe permanently.

He's quiet now, pale and bruised underneath the sheets. He doesn't struggle against the restraints anymore. His eyes are closed, and that's a mercy in a way, that she doesn't have to look at those cloudy, ice bright eyes of his.

Ellen could almost hate herself for that thought.

"Rika," Dean breathes softly.

It's hard not to stare at those circular scars around his throat and bare chest. Even harder not to stare at the bandage covering his left shoulder.

_The bitch branded him_.

It's a very distinct handprint, small and delicate looking. Five fingers, and a palm with no lifeline. When she changed the dressing hours earlier Ellen imagined she could even see fingerprint whorls in Dean's burned, raised flesh.

Dean arches his back a little, but Ellen leans forward, but she knows he's not awake.

"Tiesen," Dean whispers roughly.

That Lillith bitch _branded _him. That was _bad_.

Dean _allowed_ it. That was _worse_.

"Chale," Dean mutters.

The floorboards creak behind her. It's a slight sound, but she suddenly _knows_, knows it's not Bobby.

Knows that she's_ screwed_.

The pain explodes behind her eyes, washes over her, from the top of her head to her toes. Her gun's in her jacket pocket, and all she can do is twitch as the muscle spasms slam her against the chair. It's like the worst case of flu she ever had, only a thousand times worse. Her throat closes up as her sinuses clog with mucus. Her gut clenches painfully, and the sound of her heartbeat, fast and skittish, follows her down into the merciful dark.

* * *

Bobby comes back to himself all at once, as quickly as he left, blinking in the sunlight again.

And damn, is he hungry. Stomach feels like his throat's been cut. He's starving. But _not _dying.

He looks directly into the eyes of the girl, this Famine. She's sitting cross legged on the ground right in front of him. Rumfeld2's right beside her, sitting on his haunches, a wide toothy grin on his doggy face.

_Idjit._

The black horse stands on the girl's other side, her head lowered almost to Bobby's eye line.

Famine turns halfway towards Bobby's house. She cocks her head to one side as if she's listening to someone, and when she turns back to Bobby her smile is relieved and genuine. It even reaches her eyes. She ruffles the fur on Rumsfeld's chest and the big Rottie grins happily.

_Huh._ Bobby's surprised the mutt didn't drop dead when she touched him.

"Hello, Eugene," the black horse rumbles out loud.

Bobby grunts. "Why am I still alive?"

Famine smiles as she strokes the horse's neck. "This is Samirah. She likes you."

"Horsemen, huh?" Bobby coughs. He's got a sudden urge to go into his kitchen and start cooking. "As in Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"You're quick."

"Seeing that I'm mighty hungry all of a sudden…you must be Famine."

She nods.

"Horse_men_?" Bobby quirks an eyebrow at her.

The girl chuckles a little. "Don't believe the hype. My name is Rika."

"Wish I could say it's a pleasure to meet you, Rika. I'd be lying if I said that. No offense."

Samirah snorts. Rika laughs. "None taken."

"Fella on that red horse?"

"War. Tiesen."

"Uh huh. Dappled grey?"

"Pestilence. Chale."

"So that means Dean's Death."

"Yes. We call him Gaelen."

"Gaelen." Bobby closes his eyes, sits back against the wall. "Dean's Death. Why am I not surprised. "

Samirah whickers softly.

Bobby opens his eyes, looks at the black horse and frowns. "Thought Death rode a pale horse."

Rika shrugs. "One did once."

"What?"

"Never mind." Rika glances over to the side, and for a split second Bobby sees light and dark currents of something in her eyes. The moment's gone then, and she's just a slender girl again.

Bobby glances over at the other horses, the big red stallion and the dappled grey. They're standing alone and quiet over there. No riders, and that makes his eyes widen as he looks at his house. "Where are the others?"

"They're inside. With Gaelen."

"Ellen, the woman inside ---"

"She's fine now."

"_Now?_ She wasn't _before_?"

Rika shrugs.

"You bastards always so quick on the trigger?" Bobby grumbles. He curses himself soon as he says it, but he'll be damned if he's gonna bite his damn tongue in his own damn place.

Rika quirks an eyebrow at him. "We don't have to explain ourselves to you. You took Gaelen and Samirah in, and we thank you for that, but don't expect us to kiss your ass, old man."

"Old man?" Bobby mouths silently.

Samirah laughs. She pricks her ears as she turns away, towards the house. She starts walking at a leisurely place, crosses the yard, walks up onto the porch. Bobby's not surprised when the door swings open by itself to let her in.

Samirah disappears into Bobby's house with her head and tail held high, like she owns the place.

"Damn horsemen and their damn horses," Bobby mutters aloud to himself. "Dean, if she breaks anything, you bought it, boy."

Rika giggles.

* * *

There are six of them. No…four…

Ellen stares up blearily at the men standing over her. Four goes into six and then back down into two and she blinks. Still two. Okay.

Gun's still in her jacket pocket, but she takes one look at those copper eyes and knows better not to try anything.

Nothing yet any way.

"Sorry," one of them says. He's tall, but broad, like a wall. Hispanic, with very short hair. "Had to make sure you weren't one'a Lillith's people."

He jerks his head back towards the bed. Dean's sitting up, propped up against the pillows, staring blankly into space. The restraints are gone. "Didn't appreciate you tying him up like that." His face darkens slightly. "Still don't."

The black man huffs. Ellen doesn't like the way he's staring at her either. This one is tall, powerfully built, all shoulders and muscle. His black locked hair falls to his waist, frames that perfect face like a lion's mane.

"Just so we understand each other," he rumbles as he leans down. "I will not allow you or any other human here to show disrespect to me and my kind. That weapon in your pocket? It's useless. Draw it and I will end you. _Permanently._ My brother had mercy on you. I won't. Are we clear?"

Ellen coughs and nods. The colors of the clothes they wear hurts her eyes. Robes one minute, what looks like intricately engraved armor the next.

The black man nods, but Ellen's not fooled. That slight smile doesn't even reach his eyes, and the smile is cold besides. "Good. My name is Tiesen. This is Chale." Chale nods.

"…hey…" They both smile when they hear that weak whisper from the bed.

Dean.

_No,_ Ellen thinks to herself. _Gaelen. Lillith called him Gaelen._

Ellen's left alone then, sitting with her ass on the floor and her back against the wall. Tiesen reaches the bed first, and Dean shakily puts out a hand. His eyes are still filled with that horrible whiteness but he somehow seems to sense where Tiesen's hand is, and they clasp hands in what Ellen can only assume is a secret handshake for their own special club.

Dean stares blindly past Tiesen, to Chale. Dean smirks a little.

It's so relaxed and easy, it makes Ellen's heart ache a little. Dean acted that way with John and Sam. And now these two.

"Should have known better," Chale rumbles. "Leave you and your girl alone for a minute, and look at the damn mess you get yourselves into."

"You shoulda seen…the other guy," Dean whispers. "How the hell did you find me?"

Tiesen shrugs. "We could hear you. You got a set of lungs on you, little brother."

Dean swallows. "Ellen…Bobby?"

"The humans?" Both men look bored. Tiesen glances at Ellen. "They're fine."

The black horse strolls into the bedroom from the hallway, her head down slightly, her neck stretched out.

_I don't believe this,_ Ellen thinks to herself. _I hope she's housetrained. Bobby's gonna be pissed if she's not. _

The black walks around to the right side of the bed and nuzzles the side of Dean's face. "Hellooo, Wil-burr."

Dean smiles, bright and genuine. "Hey, girl." He reaches up with his stump and she whickers sadly as she bumps her nose gently against the bandage. "You lost something."

Dean grunts. "Yeah." It's a sad sound, barely above a whisper, and it pisses Ellen off.

"So what the hell are you gonna do about this?" she says out loud.

Dean startles. Chale and Tiesen stare at her. "What?"

"You heard me." She puts her feet underneath her, pushes up against the wall and leans heavily against it when the ground threatens to slide out from underneath her. Tiesen glares at her and Ellen glares right back. "Hey, you told me not to throw down on you. You didn't tell me to keep my damn mouth shut." She jerks her head at Dean. "So what's the plan now?"

"What?" Chale rumbles.

"How are you gonna get back what he lost?" They stare at her. Not good. "You don't _know_, do you?"

Dean coughs.

Dean coughs again. Wisps of bright light puff out between his lips. His eyes turn copper for the briefest second. The bandage over Lillith's handprint on Dean's left shoulder dissolves into flakes of black ash.

Tiesen looks at Chale and frowns. "Are you doing this?"

Chale shrugs. "It's not me, brother."

"…no…get…" Dean gasps. "Gonna hurl…gonna…"

He coughs again, deep and hacking, and the next thing anyone knows is he's pulling the covers off the bed, his bare legs windmilling as he frantically dives off the edge of the bed. Dean lands on his hands and feet in an awkward sprawl, but he's up in a second, lunging for the door, heading for the hallway leading out to the yard.

Despite the situation, Ellen smiles a little to herself. She's perving on the boy. It's one hell of a show.

* * *

Bobby looks up as the back door to his house blows back on its hinges, and sure enough, there's Dean, wearing only those black boxer briefs, coughing up white light.

What the hell?

Dean stumbles down the steps. He leans over, his left hand at his throat, and when he coughs the light slams into the ground at his feet, blows a deep crater in the earth about a foot and a half in diameter.

Dean's eyes widen. _Shit. _

_Shit!_

He stumbles forward, and then somehow his forward motion smooths out into an all out sprint for the far corner of the yard.

_Better out than in. _Bobby thinks to himself. _Gotta go somewhere._

Bobby knows the shit's well and truly hit the fan when Rika pushes him down on the ground. The air around them thickens, shimmering silver all around them.

"What are you doing?"

"Shielding you," the girl barks harshly. "Don't move."

Dean's gone now, Bobby can't see him anymore, but it's too late and Bobby somehow knows it.

The ground shakes. He can barely see the house through the shield, but he senses it when the foundation shifts. The siding cracks. Shingles fly up into the air like startled birds.

The ground jumps again, and there's this sound, impossibly deep, basso, and it's Dean, Bobby knows it is, coughing up whatever it is that Lillith pumped inside him.

_Better in than out…_

The yard comes apart, rusted junkers blowing apart like fall leaves. The rusted out shell of a yellow school bus bounces up into the air, impossibly high, almost lazily revolving in the air, tumbling end over end, sunlight glinting off dirty window glass as it falls towards them.

Bobby has just enough time to think: _I hate it when I'm right. Dean, you idjit...._

The bus slams into the ground right on top of Bobby and Rika.

* * *

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

**_Chapter 24_**

He can almost see them in the air, flittering around in the sun bright air above. Flashes of faint white light, wings flickering in the sunlight all around.

_Damn angels._

Free fucking will all right, and Sam _knows_ which path John's going to take.

It's hours later, maybe days after the fight. Sam's time sense is still shot to hell, but now he really doesn't give a damn. He stays out on the back deck, sprawled out on the lounge chair. He breathes in that fake fresh air, turns his face up to that fake sun overhead and tries to get warm. Doesn't work, though. He's cold inside, right down to his bones, if he still has any.

Sam doesn't even try to jump the fence to leave the yard. What's the point? He can feel the energy the fence gives off even from where he sits on the deck, and Sam knows that if Uriel had anything to do with it, touching that fence is probably gonna be pretty damned unpleasant.

Being awake was boring as hell, but any place where John Winchester _wasn't_ was fine by him.

Sam even dozes off once or twice, which surprises the hell out of him, being dead and all. He hasn't slept since he went crispy critter at Devil's Gate.

The dreams were good. Sam dreamed about Jess sometimes, but it's mostly about Dean, and wasn't _that_ ironic? Dreamed about the hunts they'd been on, the good times, even though most of the time they were hunting and the adrenaline was pumping and he was scared witless sometimes. You never know how good you have it until it's gone. Dean first, then Jess, and now Dean's gone again.

_He left me, this time._

Sam very quickly steers his thoughts away from_ that_ field of land mines, tries to remember the good times.

And there _were_ good times. It wasn't all high drama or screaming terror.

When they weren't on a job, they'd drive through the countryside sometimes just gawking at the scenery. They sat on the hood of the Impala at rest stops, watched the moon rise above the trees, and Dean was so still and quiet he was like a statue. His face and body were totally relaxed. He was at peace, and so was Sam, just for that very moment.

Sam dreams of _Dean_, _Dean Michael Winchester_, cocky, irritating as hell, gleefully shallow and damn proud of it. _Dean_, not _Gaelen_ with his black leather hoodie of death, those spooky copper eyes and that big black horse of his.

Sam dreams about that hunt down in Mexico. Chupacabra. Things were gross, filthy, but the only thing Sam really remembers is that bright smile on Dean's face. He was like a kid again.

Well, a macho, dorky kid with lethal combat skills and a trunk full of weapons who was excited as hell.

"Chupacabra, dude!" Dean gushed happily. "Man, that's the stuff legends are made of! We heard about 'em when we were kids, but we never saw one!"

Five hours later they stepped out of the damn nest, slinging slime and flicking chuppie guts from their clothes. Dean sighed. His bubble was well and truly busted. "Legendary, huh? Slimy bastards. Don't believe the hype." He switched his shotgun from his right to his left, tried to shake gobs of greenish goo off his fingers.

"They stink so bad my sense of smell is gone," Sam muttered as he raked his fingers through his hair, frantic to get all the little bits and pieces of spleen and guts out.

Dean snorted. "You don't know how lucky you are."

They roamed around the desert southwest next. Scragged a few more evil sonsabitches, including this one thing that looked like a supersized, hyperactive rabbit with razor sharp teeth that loved to snack on tourists. Turns out Bugs Bunny wasn't invincible; Dean stole a heavy dump truck, blessed it with holy water and ran the bastard over until it was as flat as a pancake.

"Sam?"

_Shit. It's Dad._

Sam keeps his eyes closed. His gut clenches up. He opens his eyes and there he is, the great hunter John Winchester, just as unmarked and unhurt as he was the moment they woke up in this dollhouse. They both healed up pretty quickly from the fight, but the worst scars are still there, right underneath the skin.

"What the hell do you want now?"

"I, uh, wanna talk. About you. And Dean."

"No shit, Dad? _Now_ you wanna talk? Dean's not your son anymore, remember? We got nothing else to discuss."

John lets out a breath. Sam stares at him hard, and there seems to be something different about the man. He seems a little…softer. Just a little bit.

Sam makes himself hard inside. Diamond hard, and yeah, he gets the irony: all his life he's been the emo one, and now Dad wants to talk and Sam doesn't want to hear it.

All around, nearly hidden in the bright blue sky, wings fold to a resting position as Heaven holds its breath.

"Mind if I sit down?"

Sam shrugs. _Sit down or go to hell for all I care._

John sits down, scrubs both hands together. He's damn good at giving Marine lectures. Too bad this isn't one. "I'm gonna…gonna take the deal. Gonna move on."

"You came out here to tell me _that_?"

"I don't expect you to understand, Sam. I know how close you and Dean are. And maybe now I know why. There's always been something…special about you…"

"Duh." Sam huffs. "Way ahead of you, Dad. I've got demon blood in me, right?"

The look of shock on John Winchester's face is priceless.

"Dean and me figured that out six months after Jess died. You could have been straight with us about what you found out about that yellow eyed bastard and Mom. Later on that year we snagged one of the Demon's kids. His daughter. She was hiding out in this girl I met while I was hitch-hiking. Her name was Meg. I ditched Dean that time. Did you know that? Ditched him while we were on a hunt. Came looking for_ you_ when you were in California."

John stares at the planks between his boots, and when he looks up Sam smiles at him, a smirk so wicked sharp it cuts. "She followed us and we trapped her out in this backwoods cabin. She told us about the blood. Demons lie, right? Sure they do. But they also tell the truth if they know it'll fuck with your head."

John sits there shocked into silence, and a part of Sam feels actually pretty good about this. This is something he _won't_ be blindsided with. "The visions were a bitch to deal with 'round about that time. There was some other stuff, too…never mind. I'm dead now, right? End of story. The thing is, when I was having those visions, those headaches…Dean stayed with me._ He_ didn't ditch me. _Not once_. I don't think the thought of leaving even crossed his mind."

"Sam," John says slowly, and Sam bristles. "When you see Dean, would you tell him something for me?"

"Why?" Sam grunts. Best to get this over and done with. Sam's hands itch; he wants to smack John in the face, again, never mind the beat-down he suffered at the man's hands hours (or days?) before.

What John says next isn't what Sam expected. _Tell Dean I love him. Tell him I'm sorry about the way this went down._ It wasn't any of those things.

"Red Dog Inn," John rumbles.

"W-what?"

"Mention the Red Dog Inn to him, will you? He'll know." John rubs his hands together and stands up.

Sam glares daggers at his father. "So, that's _it_, huh? That's all you got?"

John nods.

"Take your heavenly reward and get the hell out of my sight then," Sam snaps roughly. "Go on. Run away from your two freak sons like a chickenshit bastard. I know we had our fights in the past, Dad, but I never figured you for a coward."

Sam settles back in the chair and closes his eyes. He tunes John out, tunes out that slight rustling of feathers in the air above. With any luck he'll dream again. Of Dean, and the wide open road.

* * *

Half a ton of rusted out steel hangs in the air above them, then drops like a rock, blotting out the sun. Hell of a thing.

Bobby has just enough time to think.

_Dead._ He doesn't scream or yell. He's too pissed off for that.

_We're dead._ _If I ever see that damn Dean again, Horseman or no Horseman, I'm kicking that boy's ass._

Rumsfeld2 whimpers and Bobby raises up just enough to see the Rotweiller crawl towards him on its belly. He's included under Rika's shield, for whatever good that means.

The big dumb mutt whines as he snuffles Bobby's fingers. _Stupid dog._

The air darkens and everything slows down. For any other man being in close quarters like this with a beautiful young woman would be extremely uplifting, to say the least, but Bobby's not fooled.

Rika changes. The glow inside and around her brightens. She goes from teen-aged to ageless in another heartbeat, and she smiles a little as she stares at Bobby. The air around them shimmers silver and the weight of it pushes Bobby down flat on his back. Rika's outline shimmers and flows into the air; her wavy blonde hair billows up like storm clouds.

It's her eyes that catch and hold Bobby's attention. They're pools of dark copper and gold, so deep that he wants to just fall in and allow himself to sink underneath the surface. He's seen the same thing before: Dean's face glowed with that same unearthly beauty, eyes blazing copper and bright green, back on the parking lot of Lloyd's Bar.

Rika lights up the air around them. Bobby gets it. What's inside her is now barely contained. It surges out through her skin. It's the softest light Bobby's ever seen, and it's the brightest.

It's hungry.

She's Famine, after all, and sometimes, Bobby supposes, even Famine needs to eat her fill. Rika's light flexes up and out all around them, touches rusted metal and broken glass, and devours it all.

* * *

Dean coughs up white (hates that friggin' color with a passion right now) and every time he does he thinks of Lillith. He's on his knees now, and he can't remember how in the hell he got there. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat, and his skull pulses, seems like it's about to explode each and every time he coughs.

Lillith's palm print itches on his left shoulder, an unwelcome reminder pressed deep inside his skin.

Dean thinks of taking Lillith apart piece by piece. The _real_ bitch this time, not some 'shifter skank who was dumb enough to think that she?/he?/it? could take him. Dean thinks about torture, slow and painful, inch by inch. It could last years if he does it right.

It's a comforting thought.

Dean coughs out more white light, frowns, nearly gags and coughs out some more. His mind's a blank. All he thinks about is one more breath, one more bone-rattling cough. Anything to get this crap out of his system, and then he can start hunting for the bitch who did this to him.

He breathes in and out, quick and shallow. It hurts. Hurts worse than that time he had pneumonia so bad he swore he was on his deathbed. Hurts worse than that time he zigged when he should have zagged and that fugly down in New Orleans nailed him in the small of his back with that poison stinger.

Gradually, the fog lifts.

He's still on his hands and knees, not exactly the most dignified position he's ever been in. Now he just feels plain lousy, light in the head and heavy in the limbs, and that pesky rumbling in his stomach has finally settled down to a dull roar. It's kind of like a hangover. All of the after effects and none of the fun beforehand.

He doesn't know how, but Dean also knows that those scars around his right eye are still there. His eyes flash copper, and freckled skin and black boxer briefs shift into sleek black fabric and leather, cassock and greatcoat, low-heeled black leather boots. Something soft flops around the back of his head and for a wild moment Dean imagines Sam standing there smirking.

_"Dude, you're wearing a damn hoodie!"_

There's a stab of pain in his heart, and yeah, that's just one of the freaking after effects right there. His eyes get a little damp and gritty, and Dean wipes it away with his right hand. No big deal. He's not emo. Uh uh. No damn way. Nothing he can't handle. Right.

Things _are_ looking up, though.

He can see, for one.

Dean blinks.

At his right hand.

Damn if the sonofabitch didn't come back.

His right hand's just like it was before, ghost like, glowing, shifting shades of gold. Dean kneels there, balances with his left hand as he flexes the fingers of his right, and he laughs. It's a goofy, relieved sound. He _sounds _like an idiot. He _feels_ like an idiot.

He tries to get up, and his legs and knees just aren't cooperating. That loud crack in his lower back just _can't_ be good. Dean thumps back down on his ass hard enough to make his jaws click together.

Good thing no one's around to see him like this…

Samirah gently nudges Dean's ear with her nose. _You're embarrassing me, you know that?_

Dean yelps.

_Yep, _Samirah says smugly. She lips at Dean's neck this time, then grabs his hood in her teeth and gives it a good yank, pulls it up and over Dean's head. _Didn't exactly cover yourself in glory with this one, huh? I am sooo embarrassed. _

"Geez," Dean grumbles as he sits up straighter. He pulls the hood back down onto his shoulders. "Give a fella a little warning next time, huh?" He keeps that baneful glare on his face as he looks at her, but something deep inside him loosens up, just a little.

She's beautiful again. Coal black, sleek and healthy. The scars are gone, and her eyes shine like new copper.

Samirah twitches her ears at him._ You just destroyed Eugene's place._

"Eugene?" Dean coughs. "Who the hell is Eugene?"

_Sleeveless vest monkey boy._

_Sleeveless vest monkey boy?_ Dean mouths the words and he still doesn't get it. His head has this floaty, achy feeling. It's a balloon bumping against his shoulders and if he's not careful it will come loose and float away.

_Singer._ Samirah tosses her head and snorts._ Robert. Your human dams and sires give you too many names. _

_Bobby. _Dean's eyes widen.

Dean comes crashing down to earth.

Samirah nods briskly. _That's another name for him. I like Eugene better, though. _

Dean looks around then, sees mountains of melted slag, puddles of burning rubber.

_Shit. Shit!_

* * *

It's not fair, and it's not right. On top of the world one minute, hiding in the shadows like a sewer rat the next.

Lillith squirms inside her brand new meatsuit. It's a loose fit, way looser than she's used to, but she had to go deep this time, sink herself deep down inside human flesh. She glances around the crowded cafeteria, remembers not to sneer at all the humans around her. Mustn't do anything out of place.

She can feel the soul inside her borrowed body. He can't understand why he's here at County General instead of his office, can't understand why it's cold and dark.

_Will you shut the hell up,_ she snarls at him. The sound of her voice shreds the soul into a sobbing, quivering mess and she smiles a little as he shrieks and pushes himself into a corner of his mind.

_Better._

She's irritable. And hungry. Hospitals always did make her hungry, especially the Pediatric wards, and she can't even go up there this time and pick out a snack.

Alastair's eyes widen when he sees her. He's wearing a pediatrician today. That fake smile of his crawls across his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

He walks up to the body Lillith's in, smiles brightly as he throws an arm around its shoulders, and steers her over to a secluded hallway.

"Didn't I tell you not to come here? I told you to wait at the house," he hisses.

"I'm hungry. I'm hungry and I'm tired of hiding," Lillith pouts.

"Well, that's just too damn bad," Alastair says harshly. "I told you I was going to handle all the arrangements."

Lillith glares at him, and Alastair glares right back at her. "I don't like being dragged away from my duties downstairs. You know that. I left Teon in charge, and that little rat bastard has always been too ambitious for his own good."

"I don't trust anyone else but you to handle this." Lillith puts a finger up against her ear, twirls it like she's twirling one of her long braids or pigtails. Alastair stares at her like she's lost her mind. The body she's in is fifty and bald as a billiard ball.

"Your will be done," Alastair says soothingly. "Winchester will burn the world down to get to you. We just have to set up the right scenario so that he'll do our work for us." Lillith looks doubtful, and Alastair pats her right arm. "We'll make this happen. The End of Days is near. You'll see."

Lillith's stomach growls like a rabid German Shepherd.

Alastair smiles. "Tell you what. Let's go up to the Neonatal unit. I've got a treat for you," he purrs in a singsong voice. He leans close and whispers the word into her ear: "Twins."

Lillith smiles for the first time in days.

* * *

TBC - Sunday


	25. Chapter 25

_**A/N: **_There's some cussing in this chapter. Yeah, I blame Dean, too. Also, this is more of a bridge chapter. Stay outta my head, Wendy. I changed the locks.

* * *

_**Chapter 25**_

_**Then**_

The house shakes. Ellen can hear Dean outside, coughing, a booming noise that makes her ears ache. She leans against the wall, and she knows that whatever's wrong with the boy, it's not winding down.

Dean's just getting started.

Lillith put her mark on him, and when things went south Lillith's handprint pumped white death inside him, hoping that would kill him once and for all.

Tiesen and Chale glance at each other, and their eyes flash bright copper. The black horse whickers softly. She stares out the window, both ears pricked alertly.

Outside it's all white, nothing but white, and even after everything she's seen for some reason all that whiteness scares the hell out of Ellen more than facing down some demon ever would. What Chale does next scares her even more at first. He crosses the distance between them in a heartbeat, throws one extremely well muscled arm around her waist and pulls her to him.

Ellen still figures she's going to die, so she struggles a little. He's Pestilence, after all.

It's like pushing against a mountain. Even without the leather armor he's wearing she can tell that he has muscles in places where normal humans don't have muscles. He's warm against her skin and he feels pretty damn good, actually.

Maybe her mind is playing tricks on her, but Chale smells like cinnamon.

He looks down at her with this small, almost shy smile on his broad, rugged face, and she remembers what Tiesen said: "My brother had mercy on you."

_Huh._

She doesn't sicken and die like she thought she would, so after a moment Ellen drops the silly business of struggling and just stands there looking up at him.

Chale's smile gets a little wider then. "I'm shielding you," he whispers softly. "Hope you don't mind."

"Oh, hell no," Ellen snarks with a smile. "Shield away." The air around them thickens, gets heavier. It pushes her up against him even more.

Ellen doesn't mind.

Chale doesn't either.

Tiesen rolls his eyes.

Pinpricks of silver light dance through the air like snowflakes in a wind gust. Air pressure inside the house twangs madly as the shields push outward and cocoon the building against the whiteness outside.

Meanwhile Tiesen and the black horse stare at Ellen and Chale in disbelief.

"Get a room, you two," the man and the horse grumble at the same time, and everything fades away for a moment as death rolls over the house like breakers against a faraway shore.

* * *

_**Now**_

_---Bobby's gonna kick my ass. _

Dean leans forward, and he can't catch his breath.

_Bobby's gonna kill me ---_

Heart's pounding, and his knees wobble even though he's not standing up.

_Breathe,_ Samirah says cheerily, _Breathe. _She puts her forehead against his upper back, pushes him forward. _Head between your knees. That's it. In and out. In and out._

_Shit. Shit!_

_Breathe…_

…_uhhhhh….uhhhhh…_

_Come on now…_

It takes several more moments like this before that fluttery, panicky feeling gradually goes away.

Dean raises his head and he groans at the destruction all around him. Heaps and mountains of melted metal all around. Fused slag and scorched metal. Nothing's burning anymore, but even so that's the least of Dean's worries.

_I am so dead. _

Samirah snorts._ Death can't die, dummy._

_Fuck. Fuck!_

Samirah carefully folds her legs underneath her, lays down right behind him. Dean leans back against her broad black side. He pulls in great hitching lungfuls of air that makes his throat stutter, and he thinks to himself, _breathe you dumb sonofabitch, breathe. Don't you friggin' die. Get yourself together so Bobby can do the honors and kill you himself. 'm dead. Dead…_

_You gonna sit there all day?_ Samirah nibbles at the top of Dean's head, plays with his hair. Dean doesn't seem to notice.

_Bobby._ Dean hunches his shoulders. _He's gonna be pissed._

_He did look a little red the last time I saw him. _

_You saw him? He's okay? Ellen?_

_That human female? She likes Chale._

_What?_

_And I think he likes her back. You wanna see?_

Dean gets on his hands and knees and it takes a few moments for him to slide onto Samirah's back. She doesn't have her tack on but he grabs a handful of her long thick mane and presses his knees into her sides. She gets up slowly, which is a good thing because Dean's stomach is still a little queasy. He wobbles on her broad back, and Samirah freezes, her head cocked to one side.

_You all right?_

_Uh…yeah._ Dean nods. _Yeah. Gimme a minute. _As soon as he moves he immediately regrets it. The world around him turns in a slow, somehow greasy motion, and Dean closes his eyes against the rumbling in his belly.

'_m fine._

His eyes flicker open, and he burps.

Nothing. No white light, just that uneasy fluttering in his chest and stomach.

_You don't sound too sure. Here._ Samirah's ebony black hide ripples with blue lightning, and she's tacked up again. It takes three tries before he can even slip his boots into the stirrups, and even then it's only because Samirah leans up against this tower of fused metal long enough for him to steady himself. His balance is all screwed up, and the ground's too far away.

_Son of a bitch._ He hates _this_. Hates feeling weak and sick. Always has, always will. That much about him _hasn't_ changed, and now it's just one more thing to pay that bitch Lillith back for.

_If _he survives what Bobby's gonna do to him.

Dean takes up the reins loosely, but he doesn't let go of Samirah's mane.

Samirah tries to make it easy on him. She starts off at a slow, stately walk, and it's just no damn good. He feels uneasy inside his skin; his chest is heavy. That rumbling in his stomach has died down, but his muscles are weak and sprung.

"Handprint," Dean mumbles as he rubs at his left shoulder.

_What?_

"Itches."

Samirah flattens her ears back_. Bitch._ She shakes her head angrily. _Gonna stomp her flat just like I did that other one._

She steps daintily along, smoothly, carefully, and after the first five feet or so Dean actually begins to feel better. He sits up straighter in the saddle, balances himself in time with Samirah's motion. He thinks about spending time with Lillith when he finally catches up with her scaly blue ass, and this time he won't be bumping uglies with the bitch either.

Dean smiles a little.

The closer they get to the house the less damage there is. The cars and trucks all around are more recognizable. The metal's scorched, not melted.

_That's still not gonna save my ass,_ Dean thinks to himself.

Samirah eases up behind a pile of stacked cars just beyond that canopy Bobby erected for her. She sticks her nose around the corner. Dean leans over to get a good look.

_Damn._

The house sits in a perfect round circle that is untouched by the destruction in the yard. The canopy is within the circle; so is the stack of car bodies.

Bobby's out there, staring at his house.

Dean freezes in the saddle. He tenses up again, all the way up. Samirah shakes her head as she feels his body clench up.

One corner of the roof is gone, but the walls and doors and windows and the porch is still intact. Bobby's calm. Or at least, he _looks_ calm. Dean knows better.

He's seen Bobby pissed before. Yelling, mad as hell. This is _worse._

Bobby shakes his head slowly, his face shadowed by the bill of his trucker's cap. "Dean, your ass is mine," the older man says softly, and that's worse than if he was yelling. "I don't give a damn if you _are_ one of the Four Horsemen."

Dean gulps. _Hard._

_Huh. _Samirah thinks. _Eugene doesn't look as red as he did the last time I saw him. _

Rumsfeld2 wanders around the yard with a puzzled look on his broad, dark face. His short stump of a tail wags a little, then stops as he stares all around. Things have changed, and he can't figure out why. He turns around, sees Dean and especially Samirah, and the damn dog sits down with his back to Bobby and starts grinning happily like he's looking at his newest best friends in the whole wide world.

The other three apocahorses stand quietly on the other side of the canopy.

Rika stands next to her horse, Actaeon. The huge white mare stands there peaceful and docile amid all this destruction, idly chewing on the hem of Rika's sleeve.

Dean smiles feebly when Rika looks at him and winks. Rika snorts a little when she laughs. She flicks a glance at Bobby's back and shakes her head.

_Like what you've done with the place,_ Actaeon murmurs softly inside Dean's head.

Chale's big dappled grey, Ismael, and Tiesen's big red stallion, Ajani, whinny loudly._ Heee! He re-decorated. That's a good one._

Bobby hears the noise and turns around. He stares at Dean like he's aiming at him through a gunsight.

Dean's stomach drops. Basement level. Next stop Hell.

"Dean," Bobby says quietly, with a nod.

"Uh…hi, Bobby." The grin Dean gives the older man can only be described as cheesy and half-hearted. And weak.

_Very weak. _

"We got some things to discuss, you and me."

Dean nods and makes a sound.

Samirah huffs. _Did you just whimper? _

"N-no," Dean squeaks out loud. He clears his throat, tries for a deeper, more macho sound. "No, I didn't."

Samirah rolls her eyes._ Yeah. I kinda think you did. _She looks at Bobby and says out loud, "Eugene, you know I love ya, but if you hit him I'm gonna have to stomp you, boychick."

"Boychick?" Bobby mutters.

Samirah sticks her chin out defiantly. "Flattened boychick."

"Well now. Just like old times," Tiesen drawls as he steps out on the porch. He looks at Dean with a smile. "You can always tell where we've been, little brother. Just follow the destruction."

Ellen and Chale come out side by side. Dean's eyes widen when he sees they've got their arms around each other.

Tiesen turns around and smirks. "It's over, so you two can let go of each other now."

Chale and Ellen blush like teenagers.

Bobby quirks an eyebrow at Dean. "Well?"

"I gotta make this right." Dean slips his right foot out of the stirrup, and he's thrown off balance as Samirah backs up instead.

_Later._ Samirah dances in place. _I want to go for a run._

"S-Samirah?" Dean sputters_._ She wheels around on a dime. Dean's thrown forward, with one arm around her neck, his ghost right hand tangled up in the reins and her mane.

"No, wait a damn minute, what ---"

He's weakened, and they both know it. He couldn't stop her even if he wanted to, and he doesn't want to hurt her. He keeps his seat, somehow manages to regain his loose right stirrup.

Samirah takes the bit in her mouth and runs, and all Dean can hear is Bobby bellowing his name from behind.

"DEEEAAAANNN!"

* * *

They finally come to a stop in the middle of this dusty road somewhere. A train sounds in the distance. It looks and sounds familiar, but Dean can't place it. Not yet, anyway.

He's pissed. "What the hell was that all about?"

_You need to calm down. Eugene's gonna be just as mad when we get back as he is now._

_His name's Bobby._

_Hmph. Like I said, you humans have too many names. _Samirah takes a few steps sideways, and that's when the shit hits the fan.

Later on Dean realizes that he heard the rumble of the engine all along. The hair on the back of his neck stands straight up and out, stiff and painful. Samirah whinnies and rears up, actually takes a few steps back on two legs, as the shape hurtles right past them, misses them by mere inches.

Dean identifies the burgundy blur as a car: _1968 Pontiac GTO…a goat...gas, tires, and oil._

He sees two faces inside. They're grinning like maniacs, but when they turn and look at Dean their mouths form twin O's of shock.

_Dumb and Dumber,_ Dean thinks. _Carter Jenkins and Andy Redford._

"There's a railroad crossing about a half mile from here," Dean hears himself say in his memory, "and dumbass there thinks he can outrun the train at the crossing. I know you've done it before and gotten away with it, but guess what, kids? Luck runs out. It always does."

The train horn sounds again, nearer, louder, and Dean jerks around in the saddle towards the sound.

The dumb fucks are racing the damn train.

The car jumps the shoulder of the road, bounces once, and incredibly enough, Dumb guns the car's engine, and the GTO rockets towards the railroad crossing.

"Those stupid sonsofbitches," Dean rages. He nudges Samirah with his heels. "We gotta stop them---"

Samirah flicks her ears backwards. _Can't._ She balks, turns around in a circle. _It's their time. _

"We can't just stand here ---"

The black horse shrugs as the GTO and the freight train reach the crossing at the exact same time.

_We have to._

"In an argument with a train," Dean said the day he first laid eyes on these two idiots, "the car will always lose. Remember that, boys and girls."

The crunch of metal against metal sounds just like screaming.

* * *

Dean's shoulders sag.

_No you don't,_ Samirah snarls. _You're doing it again. Taking on weight that doesn't even belong to you._

Dean stares at his right hand, watches the subtle golden patterns shift and change in the sunlight. "I warned 'em. I warned 'em and they still...they..."

_This just proves you can't fix stupid, _Samirah's tone is more gentle now. Softer.

"Don't do that, Gaelen," a voice from behind says. " I mean, _Dean_."

Dean turns in the saddle and stares at the woman. She's dressed for the times, now: a red shirt, blue jeans, a long black leather jacket and boots. Dean's eyes spark green and gold and copper as he takes it all in. He wants to believe it's _her_, wants to believe _so_ much. Back at Bobby's place, when he was balanced between life and death, he wanted to look up and see her face. Would have gone with her in a heartbeat. Somewhere, gladly and without hesitation.

"You're not responsible for this. They've been playing chicken with that same train every day for over a month." She nods towards the train and the wreckage. "The bill finally came due, that's all."

"Tessa," Dean rumbles, and she smiles at him, warm and affectionate.

"Hello, Dean. It's good to see you again."

Samirah stands quietly as Dean dismounts. Tessa gives a pleased little squawk as he sweeps her up into his arms and hugs her, tightly, fiercely.

* * *

**A/N:** A different kind of cliffie, here. No blood and guts; thought I'd switch up. Sam's in the next chapter, and the hunt for Lillith begins.

_Fresh Meat_'s on the way, but I have to choreograph the mayhem. Pesky Handmaidens are being right bitches today…


	26. Chapter 26

_**Chapter 26**_

Sam spends the last truly peaceful moments of his unlife dreaming about Dean, and it suddenly hits him.

He was looking at Gaelen all along, and he didn't even know it.

Dean closes the lid of the open pizza box on the Impala's hood. He wanders over to the fence surrounding the pasture with a bottle of beer in his right hand. The beer's all but forgotten. Sam can tell.

There are horses in the pasture, and they attract Dean like metal filings to a magnet.

Another successful hunt, another fugly gone back to hell, and they made it through alive to hunt another day. Sunlight turns the surface of the lake nearby shimmering silver. There's a gentle breeze moving through the branches overhead, and Sam doesn't pay it much attention.

Until the sound changes, light and fluttery, like…feathers.

Sam frowns. Dean doesn't seem to notice.

Sounds like wings.

Gigantic _wings_.

Sam shrugs it off. He leans back against the Impala, closes his eyes as he lifts his bottle to his lips and drinks deep. Breakfast (or maybe lunch?) is beer and meat lover's pizza. Might not be the healthiest way to start the day, but it'll do, especially since they're lucky to be alive in the first place.

That 'geist they hunted last night and this morning was a nasty sonofabitch.

When Sam opens his eyes and turns around he's not surprised to see Dean leaning casually against the fence, stroking the neck of one of the largest horses Sam has ever seen, a huge black and white beast that looks like it could pull a fully loaded tractor trailer truck with no problem.

Sam doesn't get it. He doesn't hate horses, but he doesn't feel comfortable around them. Dean, though, Dean loves them. And Sam used to wonder why.

"Hey, buddy," Dean croons softly. The big animal whuffs contentedly as Dean rubs it between the eyes.

Dean cocks his head to one side as he hears Sam approach. He nods at the horse. "This here's Percy. His mom's half Percheron, half Morgan. His Dad was a Thoroughbred. Won some big races when he was three."

Percy lips insistently at Dean's fingers.

"Sorry dude, I don't have an apple on me. Just pizza." Dean waggles the beer bottle at him. "Don't think you need any beer, either."

Percy snorts. He tosses his head and nuzzles Dean's shoulder. Dean laughs, and he sounds like a kid again.

Sam can't help but smile. "Dean, how the hell do you know that? Are you making this up?"

Dean shrugs. "I dunno. I just do." He frowns as he runs his fingers through the horse's forelock, frowns like he's trying to remember something and he can't. It's just beyond his reach.

Dean pulls away and Percy the horse stands there looking at him for a long moment. Then Percy turns and ambles back to the herd.

Dean shrugs. He turns from the fence. His shoulders slump and Sam pretends not to notice. The moment's forgotten as Dean straightens up with a smirk and a wink.

He raises his brown beer bottle and clinks it against Sam's. "Salud, little brother!" Dean says.

Sam blinks and he's nose to nose with Uriel.

"Just want to remind you of your place in the scheme of things, mud monkey." Uriel smiles, and Sam knows he's screwed. He glances down helplessly as the angel hooks him by the shirt, lifts him up off the lounge chair.

"That misbegotten father of yours has already crossed over. Anna and Castiel are escorting him there even as we speak. And he didn't even say goodbye, did he? And I'm stuck here with _you_," Uriel sneers. "Time for a little lesson in respecting your betters."

Sam opens his mouth, and he knows he's going to get pounded for whatever comes out, but by the looks of things he's going to get pounded anyway.

"That's not your damn job, Sparky," Sam snarks. It's pure Dean, and Sam enjoys the way Uriel's eyes widen.

Of course, his enjoyment doesn't last long.

The next thing Sam knows he's flying through the air. He sees the side of the house coming right at him but there isn't anything he can do to avoid hitting it. On impact everything goes white for a split second, and when Sam comes to Uriel already has him up on his feet.

Uriel never stops grinning, and since he's so close Sam punches him, twice, quick and hard, just like Dad and Dean taught him when he was a kid.

A normal human would be hurting for certain after that. A normal human would have a broken nose, one or two black eyes, for starters.

Uriel blinks. Then that smile of his gets even wider. "You were Azazel's pet, weren't you, boy?"

Sam feels his stomach and balls shrink. _Crap._

"Special children. Tainted at birth. Even now, you stink of demon blood. And that older brother of yours? I knew him back in the day, did you know that?" Uriel scowls. "I had to lower myself, had to come down here and observe him and those others riding those foul beasts, harvesting mud monkeys. It was beneath me."

Sam snorts. He spits out blood on the deck planks. "Dean's gonna harvest _your_ sorry ass first chance he gets."

Things get pretty painful after that.

Sam is picked up and slammed against the deck, the trees in the yard, and the side of the house again and again. He's stomped and plummeled. Ribs break, and his right shoulder is snapped in two. He fights back the best way he can, but nothing he does works.

When he was alive Sam took on four heavily armed SWAT guys at one time and whipped all their asses. He's damn good at hand to hand, but that's against humans. Duking it out against an angel is another matter.

And to think, he used to pray to these sonsofbitches, used to ask them to bless him and keep him and Dean and even Dad safe, ask that they look after Jessica and Mom up in Heaven.

Poetic irony is a purebred bitch in heat.

Sam bites back the scream that rises up in his throat as his left kneecap snaps in two. Uriel chuckles, a cheerful hearty sound, as he pulls Sam up by his shirt so he can punch him in the face again. The angel pulls his fist back, cocks his head to one side and then stops as if he's listening to something only he can hear.

"Damn," Uriel grumbles to himself. "They'll be back soon."

_Bastard, _Sam thinks muzzily to himself. Uriel puts his hand on Sam's broken shoulder and the Sam's flesh lights up like a Xmas tree.

Through the red-hot haze of pain Sam hears Uriel's whisper in his head: "Got to pretty you up again, boy. Can't have you looking a mess when we go see big brother, now can we?"

Broken bones and tendons knit back together, fast and excruciatingly painful. Sam screams out then, and Uriel silences him with a nod, shuts down Sam's vocal chords as he works to hide the damage he did.

Being healed hurts just as much as being hurt ever did.

And Sam's pretty damn sure that Uriel's enjoying _that _too.

* * *

Tessa lays her head on Dean's chest, sighs as she settles into Dean's touch. Dean closes his eyes, buries his nose in Tessa's hair. He takes a deep breath, savors the fresh, light scent of honeysuckle vines, the warmth of her body pressed tightly against his.

Sounds and touch sensations from the past mix together to push the present away. It's peace and quiet, sunlit fields and gentle breezes. He can breathe again, fully and deeply; the air's no longer tinged with sulfur.

When Dean opens his eyes his pupils glow soft copper.

He's Gaelen again.

Gaelen stares into space, his eyes half slitted, face relaxed, almost blank. He remembers another quiet time exactly like this one.

They were in Greece that summer, four months after he Became a Horseman. There was a mass reaping in a town nearby, a two person job. Tiesen as War raged over the countryside astride his red stallion Ajani, and Gaelen and Samirah followed. While he was on the job and in the saddle Gaelen was cool, aloof and unstoppable.

He was shy and awkward, hesitant and unsure around Tessa.

On the last day Gaelen stood beside Samirah, watched as the reapers escorted hundreds of humans away. Fingers brushed lightly against the back of his neck, warm, light and playful.

When Gaelen turned around Tessa smiled and stepped willingly into his arms.

Samirah didn't say a word. She moved away, quietly cropped grass nearby.

Quiet moments like that one were few and far between. Like this one now, and Gaelen holds onto it.

Holds onto _her_.

The present intrudes. It always does. The sound of Dumb and Dumber squabbling at each other wafts through the air, high-pitched, loud, and irritating.

"Your damn fault!" Dumb _(Carter)_ yells out as he punches his cousin in the mouth. "Didn't wanna do this! You made me do it!"

"Made you do it?" Dumber _(Andy)_ spits out ectoplasm. "I didn't make you do anything, you damn wuss!"

The dead aren't quiet; Gaelen knows that. Sometimes they're downright annoying.

The spell's broken. Dean's eyes blink slowly green as Gaelen retreats. "Guess you're on the clock now, huh?"

Tessa smiles at him. "Yeah. Sorry."

Dean takes another whiff of Tessa's hair. He smirks. "Damn. You smell _good_."

He leans back a little, looks her up and down and leers. It's classic Dean Winchester. "You _look _good, too."

Samirah snorts and rolls her eyes.

"I'm working now, Dean," Tessa murmurs. She pats his chest, lightly, and a jolt of pure pleasure rockets from his shoulders clear down to his toes.

Dean blinks. "Oh. Right." He glances over at the railroad crossing. The freight train's come to a complete stop with the wreckage of the GTO twisted up against the engine. The engineer and the brakeman have left the cab to survey the damage from the ground. The engineer's on his cell phone.

A few yards away, Dumb and Dumber kneel nose to nose, batting at each other with their eyes closed, squalling and spitting.

Sam could have whipped both their asses when he was _ten_. Dean shakes his head. "Damn. Now_ that_ is _sad_. Good thing they didn't take anyone with them. "

"It was just the two of them all along, no one else." Tessa takes Dean by the hand. "Come on, Dean. Walk with me."

"What," Dean says with a quiet grin. "This the part where I get a lecture?"

Tessa nods. "That's right."

"Uh…seriously?" Dean's face falls a little. He glances over, sees Samirah nod in agreement as she walks beside them.

Dean scowls at her and Samirah sticks her tongue out at him.

"What are you, four?"

"Will you two behave?" Tessa shakes her head.

"What, we gotta behave ourselves now?" Dean snarks.

"You're out of Lillith's deal. That's something, at least. I was worried about you. Worried about _both _of you," Tessa sighs. "Dean, you take on things that don't belong to you. It's your way, and it's one of the things I love about you…"

"I feel a 'but' coming on…" Dean mutters out loud.

"_But…_you drive me crazy when you do that," Tessa says quietly.

"Okay. Dean nods. "I get it. I mean I do. Really."

"The point is, no matter what, you can choose your own path. You have a choice."

Dean tilts his chin towards the train. "Choose like they did?"

Tessa sighs. "They chose this. They just didn't think it would end this way."

"Do you know where my Dad and my brother went?"

"Dean…I didn't reap them, if that's what you mean." Tessa shakes her head. "Look, I don't know where they went. Or even if they crossed over."

"But you've got an idea about it," Dean says flatly.

"I've heard rumors. I asked around when I heard they died. Some of the other reapers promised to get back to me if they heard anything. That was months ago."

Dean deflates. He looks awfully young and vulnerable in the next second. Tessa smiles sadly as she reaches out and gently cups his jaw with her hand, raises his eyes to meet hers.

"Promise me something." She lightly strokes his cheekbone with her fingers. "Promise me that you'll be careful out here. All of you. Rika, Chale and Tiesen. Watch your backs. There are forces out here that will smile in your face one moment and stab you in the back the next. And they're not all coming from the basement, either."

"Heaven." It's not a question, it's a statement of fact.

Tessa nods.

"I killed an angel. Zachariah."

"I know. I heard."

"Would they take that out on my family? Punish my Dad and my brother for what I did?"

"I don't know. Things have changed up there."

"Changed?" Dean stops short. "Up in Heaven?"

Tessa nods. "I hear the organizational chart has been re-arranged a bit." She chuckles to herself, but her face changes when she looks up and sees the stricken look on Dean's face.

"It was Zachariah's time. That's what I've heard. I don't know any more than that." Tessa looks over at Dumb and Dumb and frowns. They've stopped fighting now, and they're standing there staring open-mouthed at Tessa, Dean, and Samirah. The train crew doesn't notice the couple and the big black horse.

"Huh. Need some help with these two?"

"I don't think so." Tessa stares at them, and the two idiots slowly get to their feet. "We're not going to have a problem, now are we boys?" she says warmly.

Andy and Carter shake their heads slowly. Their eyes flick over to Dean and Samirah. Dean flashes the copper in his eyes at them, and Samirah paws the ground as she stares back at them.

_Damn well better** not** be a problem._

"No ma'm."

"Good. I think we'll be okay now." Tessa turns and kisses Dean lightly on the cheek. "Take care."

"You too."

"I'll be around. And if I hear anything, I'll let you know."

Dean nods. He stands there and watches as Tessa fades out with her two charges in a soft white glow. Dean wonders. If he'd crossed over in the hospital, after the accident, where would he have ended up?

The last thing Dean hears is Dumb saying, "Uh, miss? I call do-over."

Dean and Samirah snort at the same time. "What a moron," Dean says out loud.

_See? _Samirah sidesteps after Dean swings up into the saddle._ I told you we'd see them again._

_

* * *

_The ride back home is slow and easy. Almost peaceful, except…

…except Dean's pretty damn sure that Bobby's is still gonna be majorly pissed about what Dean did to his place.

Samirah pins her ears back when Dean starts humming _Some Kind of Monster._ She shakes her head, jingles the bit.

_Back in Black_ doesn't do it for her either.

And _Master of Puppets_? Samirah nearly rises up on her hind legs and sticks her hooves in her ears.

_Tough crowd_, Dean thinks to himself. He drops the reins a little more, and Samirah continues at a leisurely trot, daintily picking her way through the tall grass.

Dean takes a deep breath starts to sing, loud and clear.

"_There is a house down in New Orleans  
They call the Risin' Sun.  
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy,  
And God, I know, I'm one."_

Samirah whinnies, shakes her head up and down. _Yes!_

_Damn,_ Dean thinks to himself as he sings the second verse. _My girl likes folk ballads. Oh hell no._

"_My mother was a tailor  
She sewed my new blue jeans  
My father was a gamblin' man,  
Down in New Orleans."_

Samirah jumps the twelve foot high barbed wire fence easily. _Too easy,_ she grumbles to herself.

They're on the road now, parallel to this ranch nearly. Dean feels the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, up, stiff and painful. Samirah's ears flick back and forth as she stops, dances in place.

It's all around them. A fluttering sound that roils the tall grass and trees around them.

Sounds like _wings_. Gigantic feathered wings.

Dean tracks the noise with his eyes and senses.

"_Something I can do for you?"_ Dean calls out. He makes his voice impossibly deep. He looks almost bored. Whatever this is, it isn't human. His eyes glow bright copper as he declares himself.

The voice that rumbles out of the tall grass all around them makes the pebbles and stones on the road dance and vibrate. _"I just came to see. Never saw a Horseman before."_

"_Dude, take a picture. It'll last longer," _Dean drawls.

"_Never killed one before, either,"_ the voice purrs back.

The air hisses, sharp and piercing.

Dean and Samirah look up.

Something arcs through the air heading straight for them. It darkens the sky, blots out the sun.

It looks like feathers. Thousands of large black feathers with razor sharp edges.

_Son of a bitch..._

* * *

Next post will be on Wednesday.


	27. Chapter 27

_**A/N: **_Yep, we're back. RL has been a real witch. Don't ask. This chapter switches back and forth from Bobby's POV to Dean's POV to Fugly POV and back again to Dean. Hope it isn't too confusing.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 27**_

Bobby grins a little to himself as he walks through his house.

_Could be worse. _

He has to keep reminding himself of that. It could be worse.

Bobby walks through, and he doesn't say a word. That northwest corner's ripped off, but that's fixable. The roof and the walls are still intact, and so is everything else inside. Not even the windows are cracked, and he knows he's got War and Pestilence to thank for that.

That's a hell of a thing.

And Pestilence evidently has the hots for one Ellen Harvelle. And what's even more amazing, the feeling's evidently mutual.

Who woulda thought it?

Judging from the way Dean reacted when his girl took off it was obvious that leaving wasn't his idea. So there's gonna be quite a show when Dean gets back. He'll needle Dean a little. That's what friends and family are for, anyway. Boy's gonna have to clean up the mess he made. That's for certain.

First place Bobby checks is the wooden bookcase in his bedroom. It's untouched, like everything else is. He's still got his photo album, pictures of him and Lila on their wedding day, photos taken later on of their honeymoon when they went fishing. Lila in that blue sundress he always liked so much, because it showed off her neck and shoulders.

She always said she had a short stubby neck; Bobby thought it was beautiful, swan-like. It's funny the things you remember about a person, especially after they're gone, and the way you want to hang on everything they ever touched.

Bobby deliberately does not think about the last day they spent together, the way Lila's eyes flashed black, and the gut wrenching ache in his stomach after he killed her. Nothing's gained by dwelling on that.

He glances at the silver wedding ring on his finger, and that's the way he wants to remember her, the way he will _always_ remember her, smiling and laughing and loving.

Oh hell. Bobby sniffs a little. His eyes get a little watery and gritty. It's a good thing that Ellen and the rest of the Horsemen are still out in the yard, and maybe it's no accident that none of them are around.

They don't need to see this.

* * *

Dean drops the reins.

Samirah arches her neck as she lightly picks up her feet. She moves relaxed and elegant, leads with her right, her legs gathered underneath her in a floating sideways motion. The black feather blades in the air twist and turn, almost lazily at first. The road is blanketed as the leading edge slams into the ground. The ground cracks and dust rises.

When the dust clears, there's nothing there.

* * *

_Huh,_ Abaddon thinks to himself. _They ran away._

He crouches there on the hill for a long moment. His huge black wings unfurl behind him. The feathers writhe slightly, as the razor sharp edges rub against each other. The sound they make is a screeching metallic whine, and it makes him smile. He extends his wings out to their fullest span, some twenty feet, then slowly folds them tight against his back.

_Shame. Things just aren't what they used to be,_ he thinks to himself, the thoughts oily and dark as they slide around inside that oversized stark white skull of his. _Beings nowadays just don't know their place in the world anymore._ He looks down at his fingers, long spikes of sharp textured bone, and he smiles a little at the dark wet blood and strands of horse hair caked in the crevasses and creases.

There's a sound from behind, and the fallen angel smiles as he turns around. It's a grotesque sight: that wide large moon face, pocked with craters, pitch black eyes slanted, the lower half split in a side toothy grin.

There's life left.

_Must be slipping,_ Abaddon thinks.

A leggy dark brown foal, barely a month old, stands over the body of a brown mare sprawled on the ground nearby. She whinnies as she nuzzles the head of its dead mother. A few feet away another foal, light grey in color with black spots, paws timidly at the remains of a white mare.

_Get up. Please. Get up. _

The brown mare is motionless, mercifully dead. She tried to fight, tried to protect her young one and got her neck broken and all four of her legs nearly ripped off for her trouble. The white mare was nearly torn in two.

Bodies all around. Mares. Foals. About fifty head of horses lie on the ground. Dead. Heads twisted all the way around to the back, legs twisted and broken.

Abaddon's smile gets even wider. The two little ones won't be much trouble, but the third one looks interesting.

The horse standing between the angel and the foals is huge, coal black, feral. She rumbles as she blocks the way to the foals with her own body.

Abaddon cocks his huge, boney head to one side. She's just an animal. Just flesh. "Now where'd you come from, beauty?" he rumbles, toothy smile widening. "Thought I'd gotten you all."

The mare bares her teeth at him, and her eyes glow bright copper.

He feels it then, wind that comes from nowhere, that sweeps over his body. The air around him grows thick and heavy and pins him to the ground. He can't take flight now; he's grounded.

The black horse raises her head as a wave of blue energy courses over her glass smooth coat. Her tack reappears in an eyeblink.

One of the few human things that Abaddon appreciates is the ability to curse. "Fucking nag," the fallen angel mutters."Fucking Horseman."

_**"YOU SONOFABITCH! HEY!"**_

The voice is deep, booming as loud as thunder in the suddenly darkening skies overhead. Abaddon laughs as he turns towards in that direction. The crack of the black clad Horseman's fist against bone echoes in the clouds above. The lower half of his face splits, a long thin crack in that terrible bone white skull, and Abaddon doesn't stop grinning.

* * *

_Fuck,_ Dean thinks to himself. _This son of a bitch is fugly._ Bone splits underneath his knuckles, and oh yeah, as if the smell of the damn thing isn't bad enough (rotten meat, sulfur and stale vomit) white maggots fall out of the cracks in its bone skull each time he hits it.

_Son of a bitch._

It's as twice as tall as he is, a tangle of long black feathers weaved into a white, hulked-out skeleton that's barely covered with dark red, oily skin. It's one of the worst things Dean as ever seen in the flesh, and getting up close and personal with the fucker isn't helping either.

Dean's eyes glow bright copper as he hits it, again and again.

_Come on, you ugly fuck. Come on!_

Samirah places herself between Abaddon and the foals; they won't leave their mothers' bodies, and they're too damn close to the action as it is. She tries to gently nudge them aside, and they won't move away, not even an inch.

Dean drives his fist into that bony face._ Come on! You don't want them. You want me._

Another hit and the maggots that pour out are red this time. Dean puts a name to this feathered fuck (_Abaddon_) just as easily as he's ever named anything since this whole crazy, fucked up mess started.

_How the hell did I miss all this? Why didn't I feel it ---_

He takes a few more steps backwards. Abaddon shakes its head from side to side. Goo and maggots fall out, and the damn thing is still too close to Samirah and the others.

_Come on, you sorry bastard ---_

It's on him in less than a heartbeat. Dean hits the ground on his back, and everything goes pitch black.

* * *

_Such a handsome one._ Abaddon purrs to himself as he straddles the unconscious figure. Black feathered wings rise up, curve around them, like a hawk mantling a rabbit. He leans forward and stares at the human's face. He remembers enough about human beauty, and this one has the face of an angel. Michael perhaps. Too bad the skin will go to waste after he kills it. A beast wearing a face like this could do a lot of damage in the world.

Behind them, the black horse screams angrily. That makes the Fallen smile. He puts his hand around the Horseman's throat, runs a bony digit over that all too human Adam's apple. He could crush it, as easily as he did the others, but…taking his time is so much more fun.

It presses the tip of one finger against midnight black leather and cloth, right in the middle of the shoulder, and lengthens its clawtip into a long bony spike.

The Horseman…this _Gaelen_, or is it_ Dean?_… jerks upwards, eyes blinking open, flaring with a weak copper tint and rage and pain as sharp bone slices into the meat of his shoulder.

Abaddon leans in for a closer look. _Moss green eyes. So nice..._

"That all you got?" It's a hoarse croak of barely disguised pain.

"You know who I am, boy?"

"Get the fuck off me, you sonofabitch---"

Behind them, the black horse screams again, full of rage.

"Ah. Your girl doesn't like what I did. This is for you," It rumbles. "All of this death. It's all for you."

"What?"

"I did this all for you. It's what you are. Senseless. Random. Magnificient. What you always have been, and what you rejected."

"Get a fuckin' clue, asshat, this isn't what I am ---"

"It isn't?" The thing blinks once, confused. It leans forward, presses down hard on the Horseman's chest. He gasps as he presses his lips together tightly. Maggots fall out of the cracks in the angel's face, sprinkle down onto the neck and shoulders of that black greatcoat like salt on a black tablecloth.

"You're a Horseman. You're Death. Lillith gave you a chance to achieve greatness again."

The black rider growls, low and menacing.

"You rejected her. You rejected yourself. Her request was such a simple thing, really. I Fell because I loved death too much. When I kill you I Become even greater than I am. Thanks to you, because of you ---"

Abaddon tightens its grip. It rears back and the fingers of its free hand lengthen into long pointed claws, even as the grip around that black clad throat tightens.

The smile on the Horseman's face is bright and feral. "Guess what, Princess? You're screwed."

* * *

The fug dips its head down slightly, as it follows Dean's line of sight.

Dean has his hand in the thing's chest, fingers buried in up to his palm right in the space where the heart would be

_God,_ Dean thinks, even though he's pretty damn sure God has nothing to do with _this_. This feels _nasty_. His fingertips brush against the surface of something wet and spongy.

Everything's crawling. And slimy.

Abaddon pulls backward. Dean tightens his grip, digs in as he's pulled up and forward. His shoulders leave the ground. The air around him blazes, soft golden light and the ground liquefies as he skids forward.

Dean digs in his heels, tightens his grip. His right eye flashes, warm and brilliant as summer sunshine, and the scars around his right eye glow just as bright.

The Fallen throws back its head and screams. One wingtip slams into the side of Dean's face. His left cheekbone is ripped open, all the way down to the bone. He heals himself, and despite the white hot pain Dean feels for a moment, he sees that flash of fear in Abaddon's eyes.

Bastard's afraid.

_Damn right._

Another wingtip slashes at the left side of Dean's face. He ignores the fact that the top of his left ear has been sliced off, ignores the deep slashes from his chin to his temple. He heals himself without much thought. He leans back, and he holds on.

Abaddon's wide-eyed with fear now. His feet are off the ground now, tucked underneath his body, black wings beating frantically as it backpedals, tries to gain even more altitude. Dean's hand is sunk all the way in its chest now, up to his wrist. Coarse white ash pours out of the hole, seeps out between black feathers with each frantic wingbeat. The angel strains backwards, the cords in its neck thick as steel cables.

Dean pushes forward, a quick, hard lunge, then he digs in his heels once more and yanks backwards.

Abaddon moves upwards with a hard jerk, like a balloon suddenly freed from its tether. He's free and smiling now, thirty feet off the ground and getting higher. His wings move almost lazily, keeping him aloft. He bares his teeth at Dean.

Dean smiles right back at him. He raises his hand, turns it around.

So Abaddon can see.

So Abaddon knows he is well and truly screwed.

Ababbon's heart is in Dean's hand. It looks like a large chunk of petrified wood with tubes hanging out of it. It beats, once…

Dean gives it a good hard squeeze.

… twice…

His right eye and his right hand flares gold. The heart convulses. The angel's wings continue to beat. One hundred feet in the air now, and still climbing. The heart crumbles into dust, and the rest of him follows, bone and leather, mouth stretched open in a silent scream. Dean sees that peculiar pale golden glow all the way down its throat. The angel's skin is nearly transparent, a weird washed out maroon color, almost pinkish, and Dean can see its ribs, soft, deforming like melted candles in high summer heat. The wings arc up into the bright afternoon sky, turning lazily in mid-air. The body crumbles into ash as it goes, then the wings go next.

Flaming ash falls from Dean's clenched fist, and it all winks out before it hits the ground. _Bastard. _

_I did this all for you. It's what you are. Senseless. Random. Magnificient._

_I'm not the same thing that took Mom,_ Dean thinks._ I'm not._

He can feel the anguish rolling off Samirah in waves, sharp and pointed. She nudges the wide-eyed brown foal gently with her nose. The baby's skin shivers and twitches.

The spotted foal sees Dean and walks right over to him. Its ears twitch back and forth, and it bumps at his hand with its nose.

"Hey buddy," Dean murmurs softly as he leans down, runs his left hand down its neck and back. "It's okay. Don't know how, but it's gonna be."

_Damn. Damn! He couldn't stop this. Couldn't stop any of this. _This feels just as bad as a hunt gone wrong. Dean hates the idea of orphans. Always has.

He feels weak all of a sudden. Adrenaline crash maybe, going down, basement floor. His knees wobble and Dean finds himself sitting on the ground, ass first, with an awkward thump. He has a lap full of spotted foal, and the young one just sits there, blinking. It's shivering and shaking. Shock, probably. Perfect end to a fucked up day.

Samirah hides it well as she stalks around the other foal, but Dean sees the way her legs tremble slightly. _It's all right,_ she tells the baby. _You're safe now._ The foal ducks around her and darts back to be with her dead mother.

_Damn. _Samirah shakes her head, a gesture filled with anger and sorrow. The brown foal sticks out her neck and whinnies, loud and shrill.

The dead brown mare blinks.

It takes a long, deep breath and rolls over on its belly. The claw marks on her chest and stomach close up. The blood disappears.

She stares blankly into space as her four broken legs heal.

The white mare opens her eyes, takes a deep hitching breath. Dean sits there, staring in disbelief, as her ribs bend inward, her intestines pull back inside. Her skin knits back into place, clean and unbroken.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispers softly. The little spotted foal lunges up and out of Dean's arms as she runs towards her mother.

Samirah's frozen in place, wide eyed.

It's like someone has hit the friggin' reset button.

All around them, broken bones knit back together. Legs and necks heal and straighten. Eyes jerk open, there's grunting and snuffling as every single dead horse comes back to life.

One of the dead mares twenty feet away gets up, shakes herself off. She stretches her neck out as she whinnies for her foal, and her previously dead baby, a dusty little coal black critter with a bristle of a mane and a stumpy tail, gets to its feet, shakily, on wobbly spider legs.

The mare goes over and nuzzles her baby, then stands there quietly as the foal begins to nurse.

Several of the older foals pogo stick past, whinnying, lively and carefree.

Dean gets to his feet, slowly. "Did…did you do that?"

Samirah shakes her head as she turns her head towards Dean. _No._

They both feel it then, a prickling sensation that travels up their spines. The air is filled with the rustling of feathers overhead. It's not Abaddon.

Samirah snarls roughly as she turns and walks away from Dean in the opposite direction. _Damn pigeons._

The idea is to surround the bastards. Put them in a box, covered on both sides.

Dean walks in the opposite direction. The space between him and Samirah is now twenty feet in diameter. She stalks with her head down, ears flattened against her head. Her mane and tail is slightly bushed out, more feline than equine.

The air between them is lit up by a bright white glow that Dean can see right through.

Dean sees Castiel, in a different body, tall, black haired with blue eyes. Huh. Dude looks like Columbo in that tan raincoat.

Dean sees Uriel. Oh yeah, Dean would recognize that bastard anywhere. He wears the skin of a large black man in a dark grey suit this time, bald headed, frowning.

He's never seen the third one before. She's tall, willowy, red hair down to her shoulders, dressed in a tan jacket, red shirt and matching jeans. Her smile is warm and welcoming, but Dean barely notices. His eyes are locked on the person standing next to her.

Dean sees Sam.

* * *

Next post is Monday. The Horsemen ride out, Bobby has even more reason to be pissed, and oh yeah, did I mention that the boys are back together?


	28. Chapter 28

_**A/N: **_It's Monday. I want to thank everyone who has read and reviewed, and lurked. It's much appreciated!

* * *

_**Chapter 28**_

_My God,_ Sam thinks to himself as he stares at his brother. _He looks just like the things we hunt._

"Hello, Dean," Anna says softly.

Dean's eyes narrow. It's clear he's not buying that friendly,warm tone of hers. Sam sees the fire in Dean's eyes flare up, copper bright. _Gaelen_ is in his brother now, and he's all the more impressive in person. The scars around Dean's right eye glow to match that right hand of his, shifting pale and darker 's clothes look like something out of the Matrix movies: a long black cassock, slim pants, low-heeled boots, topped by a sleek black leather hooded greatcoat. The clothes are blacker than night, unnaturally clean and spotless, for all that they're standing in the middle of a horse pasture.

Dean glances at Anna, and that look's pure Dean, at least: _Okay now, which one'a these bitches do I take down first? _Dean's gaze sweeps over Anna, fastens onto Castiel, then Uriel, and Sam does a double take when Dean glances at him without apparently much thought, and then turns his attention on Anna again.

_He doesn't know me? Damn, I don't…he doesn't know me?_

The horses, one by one, walk or run down the hill towards the fields below.

Sam feels like running after them. This is going to be _bad_. He knows it in his gut.

Sam doesn't know where to look. Everywhere. Nowhere.

The sky overhead is still dark and turbulent, churning with clouds. He glances behind him, sees that huge black horse pacing back and forth behind them, and she looks absolutely terrifying, with those reddish orange eyes of hers, blowing white steam out of those flared nostrils. The ground burns where ever her hooves touch the ground, horsehoe shaped imprints that curl the grass black.

"_What the hell do you want?"_Dean rumbles. It's Dean's voice, only deeper. Thunder rolls overhead, and the black horse snorts loudly.

Anna spreads her hands. "We would like to talk to you."

Dean cocks his head to one side_. "Really?"_ That slight smile of his is slightly crooked and somehow sly. _"Come to make a deal with me?"_

Anna shakes her head. "We'd like to discuss the path you're on. There might be a better one."

"_Huh."_ Dean stares at Sam again, and Sam gulps as his stomach does a slow, greasy flop_. "So what you're telling me is, I can go from being Hell's bitch to being Heaven's bitch, just like that?"_

Castiel's mouth pulls into an expression that Sam thinks is a slight smile. It's hard to tell. "That is a harsh way of putting it."

Dean laughs. It's the most frightening sound Sam has ever heard come out of his brother. It's mirthless and merciless. The ground rumbles below and the sky rumbles overhead.

Anna shakes her head. "We're not here to fight with you, Dean. There is a way you can have _everything_,_ everyone_ you ever wanted."

"_Like I haven't heard that before." _Dean stands there with his hands down at his sides. Out of the corner of his eye Sam watches that huge black horse stand perfectly still. A chill of fear crawls its way up his spine when Sam realizes that he and the angels are caught directly between Dean and the horse.

Dean clenches his right hand into a fist and the glow brightens, sparks popping off his fingertips. This isn't going the way Anna, Castiel and Uriel thought it would.

Uriel's voice echoes in Sam's head. _Make yourself useful, boy._

Something unseen shoves hard against the small of his back, and Sam takes a stumble-step forward.

Dean stops and stares. His eyes narrow dangerously. _Oh God,_ Sam thinks.

"Dean? Dean, it's me."

"_I don't think so."_ Dean shakes his head, bares his teeth.

"What? Dean, it's me. It's Sam."

"_No." _

"What?"

"_You're not my brother. My brother and my Dad are dead."_

"Dean ---"

Dean laughs, a low deep rumble. _"This?" _He gestures at Sam with that firefly of a right hand of his. _"This is the best you could come up with?"_

Uriel and Castiel frown, while Anna keeps her composure. "Dean, this _is_ Sam."

"_You sure about that?"_ Dean's suddenly right there among them, right in Sam's face.

Sam freezes.

"Not as tall as my brother." Dean rumbles. He looks Sam up and down. "Looks like a girl." He leans forward. They're nose to nose, just about.

Then he looks at Sam and winks. "Long time no see, Samantha."

Despite everything, the black horse pacing back and forth, and that growl Uriel makes, Sam has to laugh. "Dean?"

"Damn right."

Sam blinks, and he misses it. Castiel's caught in mid turn, but Dean's suddenly right behind him and Uriel. Dean reaches out, clamps one hand down on each angels' shoulder. It's a fast move, too quick for even Anna to react.

Dean's eyes blaze copper.

"You put your damn hands on my brother one more time, I'll kill you, dickless," Dean snarls. "And you bastards let him do that to him, didn't you?"

Uriel strains against Dean's touch. His mouth opens up as bruises bloom on his dark brown skin. His arm breaks, ribs snap. Sparks fly from Uriel and Castiel to Anna. All three stand there jittering in place, eyes wide and way too bright.

Sam stands there dully, staring. He gets it, after a few seconds. All the injuries he had are transferred into the vessels.

Anna's nose breaks as easily as Sam's ever did. All three angels sink to their knees now.

The black horse stands there pawing the ground with her left foreleg.

Dean grins. "Bowling for pigeons. Anytime you're ready, Samirah."

She nods her great black head up and down. The angels look startled, and really, neither Sam or Dean really give a damn about _that_.

Dean puts his hand on Sam's arm. Sam blinks and the scene shifts to open prairie, tall green grass from horizon to horizon.

* * *

The angels are gone. Samirah is gone, and Sam swears he can hear her faint laughter on the gentle breezes around him.

Sam feels his knees buckle, but he _can't_ go down. Damn it, he _won't_ go down.

Dean's here. Dean, _not_ Gaelen. That glow is gone from Dean's eyes. His eyes are green again, beautiful, normal _green_.

"What the hell…what just happened?" Sam gasps.

"We shagged ass away from there." Dean looks around. "Samirah's gonna catch up with us."

"Samirah?" Sam's mouth sets in a hard, straight line. He glares at Dean. "Did you name that horse after me?"

"What? No." Dean frowns. _Deja freakin' vu._ "Didn't we already have this conversation?"

Sam stalks around Dean, stares him up and down. He reaches out and snags the back of the leather hood. "You're wearing a hoodie, bro'," Sam snaps.

"What?"

"Yeah," Sam grates out. "You are." Sam flips the hood up and over Dean's head.

"Why the hell are you picking on me?" Dean sounds puzzled, but there's no heat behind it. He flips the hood back down to his shoulders. "B'sides, it's not a hoodie," he grumbles.

"I'm not picking…" Sam frowns up. "Well…I guess I am…" He stops and stares at Dean, and yeah, it's getting very _very_ awkward. Dean looks uncertain, hesitant, not powerful like he did before. Not…inhuman.

Sam stands there, and stares at Dean's face. Dean fidgets a little. He looks like he wants to bolt. He knows what's coming.

Damn chick flick moment.

_The hell with it. _The brothers shrug and meet each other halfway as they engulf each other in a bear hug. The hug is tight and fierce. _Hey, I'm Death,_ Dean thinks to himself. _I don't need to breathe._

He leans into Sam's touch, and it's just not the same as it was before. No breathsounds, no heartbeat. Just _SamSamSam_ like a beacon, a bright pure white light Dean can see even with his eyes closed, tall and glowing and man-shaped and pure _Sammy_, all blue green eyes, shaggy brown hair and bitchface and _damn, I missed you so much_, Dean thinks.

He blinks against the sudden moisture around his eyes._ You and Dad died because of me. Should have been me, Sam. Should have been me..._

_Dean's warm,_ Sam thinks to himself. _I can feel his heartbeat._

Sam knows he doesn't have one anymore.

"Hell, I knew it was you," Dean murmurs roughly. "First glance, I knew."

Sam pulls back and openly stares at the scars around Dean's right eye. "Dude, I'm really sorry about that." He nods at Dean's right hand.

Dean shrugs it off. "I got better."

Sam nods again. "I see." Dean's hand takes on a soft mellow glow as he raises it. Sam gives a low whistle. He can see Dean's life-line, from one side of his palm to the other.

"How'd you find out?" Dean flexes his fingers.

"The angels showed me."

Dean scoffs. "Feathered fucks. Only reason I didn't kill 'em all was because they've got Dad. Am I right?"

Sam nods. "He crossed over."

"Okay." Dean looks skyward, then laughs. It's a quiet, sad sound, not the deep powerful rumble from before. "Well. I guess he deserves some peace, huh? Looks like it's you and me, kid."

The wind picks up a few feet away. Twelve feet away the air darkens and the black horse prances into view. She waves the flag in her mouth at them like a kid with a brand new playtoy.

Dean squints. Wait a minute. That's no flag. It's tan and long…and is that a belt around it? Samirah has it gathered up in her mouth as she waves it merrily around.

"Dude," Dean says finally, out loud. "You snagged Columbo's raincoat?"

_Yep,_ Samirah says smugly. She shakes her head up and down, then back and forth.

Dean stares at her and his eyes mist up. He laughs and Sam can't help but smile a little. It's good to hear Dean laugh again. Been so long…

"That's my girl! She whups ass, takes names and trophies!" Dean crows in delight.

"Uh, Dean? That…that thing just mugged an angel." Sam says.

The moment comes to a screeching halt. Open mouth. Insert the whole damn foot, toes and all.

"Oh, crap," Dean mutters.

Samirah bristles. _Thing? Thing? _Her ears go up, then back, pinned flat against her head. She opens her mouth and lets the raincoat drop to the ground. When she stalks towards Sam, with her head lowered, her tail held high, and her upper lip pulled back, Sam eases around Dean, puts him right in the middle, keeps him between him and the horse.

_Hey! Hey! Wait a minute---_ They ignore Dean's thought voice.

Samirah and Sam do a complete circle around Dean, and finally Samirah's standing directly behind Dean, with her chin on his right shoulder.

_Mine, _she rumbles.

Sam's bitchface says it all, wordless and perfect:_ He's my brother._

Samirah pricks her ears._ Mine long before you ever laid eyes on him. Bigfoot._

_Bigfoot?_

_You heard me. _

_Are you two fighting over me?_

"No," Sam grumbles.

_Yes,_ Samirah smirks. She lips at Dean's right ear and whickers contentedly as he shudders at her touch.

"Okay now. We're not doing this," Dean says out loud. He flicks at his ear with his right hand. Samirah lips at his finger. "Will you stop that? I don't know what this _is_, but whatever the hell it is, we're not doing it."

Samirah snorts, raises her head, pricks her ears and stares at the horizon behind Sam. _Pigeons._

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispers aloud.

Storm clouds on the horizon, faint at first, but getting closer. Not black clouds, not grey, but white. Wingbeats slash though the air, powerful, and furious.

Samirah stands still as Dean mounts up. She dances sideways a little, her neck bowed, already hyped up. Time to run.

"Uh," Sam stammers, "The horse…Um…can't you…I mean, I can't…" He looks back at the clouds. They're getting closer. Both boys can hear voices. Samirah pricks her ears alertly.

"What?" Dean scowls in disbelief as he looks from Samirah to Sam. "What do you think this is, Transformers? She's a horse. Deal with it!"

The wind picks up, and it sounds like screaming, loud and rageful. The grass rattles stiffly all around them.

_Uh, Gaelen?_ Samirah says quietly.

Dean puts his hand out. "Sam, come on, we gotta go! NOW!"

Sam moves. It's Dean's command voice, and he's never ignored that. He takes Dean's hand, swings up into the saddle behind his brother. Dean picks up the reins. "Put your arms around me and hang on tight."

Sam buries his face in Dean's shoulder. All he sees is the midnight black of Dean's greatcoat (_black is good,_ Sam thinks to himself, _black is fine_). Sam tightens his arms around Dean's waist as Samirah wheels around in a blur of forward motion.

The black horse leaps forward and Sam swears he can feel Uriel in the sky above and behind him, roaring and bellowing in rage. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and he doesn't even hear himself scream. It's not words, just one long wail. A part of him, the still, calm part, thinks the same thing over and over:

_Dean won't kill me. _

_Dean won't kill me…_

_No, wait, I'm already dead._

* * *

I figured the boys needed a chapter all of their own. Next post is Saturday. Or sooner, if RL permits. The Horsemen get the memo that the Apocalypse is still on, and Bobby and Ellen have to make a decision.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N:** Okay, folks! I was going to post this one this weekend, but I really appreciate the fantastic reviews I've gotten for this fic, so here's the next chapter early. Thank you! Slight change in plans: I realized I hadn't explained about "Red Dog Inn".

* * *

_**Chapter 29 **_

_Now that's something you don't see every day,_ Ellen thinks to herself.

The young blonde girl opens her hand and there's an apple seed in her palm. The seed breaks open, curls up and outward into the bright afternoon sun, and what's left is a large red apple neatly sliced into four quarters.

The horses stretch their necks out as she gives each one a slice. The big red stallion fusses more than the others; he rolls his eyes as she gives him the extra piece. "You're always so pushy," she murmurs to him.

The red horse arches his neck like a warhorse. _I deserve more._

The large white horse huffs and rolls her eyes. _No, you don't._

The dappled grey shakes his head. His mane flops over his eyes; he looks like the equine version of a sheep dog. _Here we go._

The girl laughs.

Ellen walks away from Chale, and when she glances back he's staring at her with obvious appreciation. That makes Ellen smile. "You're Famine, right?"

The girl nods. "You can call me Rika."

"Nice to meet you, Rika. I'm Ellen."

Rika opens her palm again, and there are two apple seeds instead of just the one. The red stallion eyes the seeds hungrily. _Well?_

_You can wait, Ajani. Don't be rude. _Rika says, only she doesn't move her mouth. Ellen hears her voice inside her head. Rika glances at Ellen, apparently wanting to see how she takes it.

Ellen blinks. It's not unpleasant. A slight tickle inside her head.

The big white mare moves in closer, and Rika strokes her neck. _This is my horse, Actaeon._

The animal turns her head to stare at Ellen, and it blinks those long eyelashes at her.

_Hello._

"Uh…Hi." Ellen nods and wonders if she should have thought the words instead.

_Ismael, Chale's horse, _Rika's thought voice murmurs softly.

The large dappled grey lifts his head, ears pricked. He nods, and Ellen nods back.

The red stallion snorts. _And this impatient fellow is Ajani, Tiesen's mount._

_Pleasure,_ the animal thinks at Ellen, and she manages to keep a straight face. She feels her chest and sides stutter, but she dares not laugh.

_Holy mother of God._ She's talking to horses. _Horses_, for God's sake. And not only that, they belong to the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Dean's Death, and his mount happens to be Samirah, who's just as big a smartass as her rider.

When Ellen glances over at the porch she sees Tiesen and Chale staring at her, and suddenly she gets it. Chale looks up into the sky. "Gee, nice clouds up there, huh? That one looks like a rabbit." He nudges Tiesen with his elbow. "Look."

Tiesen huffs. He doesn't seem as fierce as he did moments before. Rumsfeld2 pads over to him, sits down on his left boot and starts grinning when Tiesen reaches down and scratches him behind his ears, good and rough, just like the dog likes it.

Well, duh. The boys want Rika to check her out. And the thing is, Ellen finds that she doesn't mind it. Not at all.

"You're a friend of Gaelen's," Rika says softly. "You call him Dean?"

"Sure do."

"He's my brother. A kindred spirit. They are too." She looks over at Chale and Tiesen with obvious affection. "We all come from the same source, but we have different paths."

Rumsfeld2 pads up onto the steps, sticks his head out over the porch railing so Tiesen can continue to skritch his ears. Tiesen leans back against the porch as Chale sits down on the stairs.

"Well, when you think about it," Chale rumbles, "out of all the folks we're ever ridden with, Gaelen's the only one who ever came back." He looks down at his boots, rubs his hand over some imagined dusty spot.

_Trying to play it off with casual conversation just doesn't cut it with me, boys,_ Ellen thinks to herself.

Dust wouldn't dare land on any of them, even the horses. They're all perfect. Now that she's used to being around them, Ellen sees that their images no longer shift back and forth, from robes to armor. What they all wear now is leather, smooth, simple garments: long vests, slim pants and matching tunics. Tiesen's red, Chale's grey, Rika's clothing is white.

"So what are you trying to say, Chale?" Tiesen says sternly, but the corners of his mouth turn up in a slight grin. "That we're hard to get along with?" Rumsfeld2 moans a little as Tiesen's fingers hit that sweet spot underneath his chin.

Chale shrugs. "I'm just saying. War, Pestilence, Famine. We ain't exactly cuddly, y'know?" He looks over at Ellen and winks. "Well, I am. Don't know about you, brother."

Ellen winks back.

Tiesen snorts. Rika giggles. She looks so much like a young girl, barely into her teens, but Ellen's not fooled. Rika's eyes are ageless, but that smile of hers does reach her eyes.

"Here," Rika says out loud. "Take this." Ellen puts her hand out. Rika puts a tiny apple seed in Ellen's palm. The horses snort and nod their heads briskly up and down when they see that.

Tiesen nudges Chale's leg with his boot. "Told you."

"Oh, shut upp."

_Guess I'm approved,_ Ellen thinks to herself. She doesn't even glance behind her. The apple comes to life in her palm, and she stands there staring as it forms and separates in her hand.

Ajani moves forward a little. He stretches his neck out, and Ellen remembers to place the apple slice flat on her palm. She shivers a little as his soft lips nuzzle her palm. He practically inhales the apple slice. Ismael and Actaeon are next. They eat daintily, their eyes half closed, relaxed.

"Can I?" She nods at Rika. Rika nods.

Before this, the largest animal Ellen had ever been around was a dog, a big ol' brown mutt who used to come around the Roadhouse and sit at the back door patiently, waiting for scraps. Ellen very gently pets the side of Actaeon's neck. The long sleek muscles of the animal's neck shiver underneath her fingertips.

Yeah, chicks dig cars and scars, but they also dig horses.

"You been at this Horsemen gig long?" Ellen murmurs.

"All my life." Rika looks up at the bright afternoon sky and smiles, somewhat shyly.

"So Dean was born into this."

"_Gaelen_ was. Long ago. He was afraid at first, when his time came to ride with us."

Ellen frowns. "Afraid?"

"Yes. He was alone. His family turned against him. It was hard for him for a while," Rika says quietly. "He wandered from place to place for a time."

Ismael snuffles at her hand, apparently asking for the other apple to take form.

Ellen looks startled. "Does Dean remember that?"

Rika frowns. "Of course he does."

_Oh. Damn. _Ellen glances over at the front porch just in time to see Bobby stroll out with a six pack of bottled beer in one hand. Tiesen lets go of Rumsfeld2's chin as he reaches underneath that long red leather vest of his. He takes something out of his belt and flips it towards Bobby.

"Here."

Bobby catches the object. He frowns at the small leather pouch. "What's this?"

Tiesen shrugs. "Gold."

"Gold?"

"For taking care of Gaelen and Samirah. We pay our debts."

"Huh." Bobby hefts the bag in his hand. It's fairly heavy.

Ellen blinks. After a second she realizes something.

Bobby.

Beer.

Holy water.

Crap.

"Uh, fellas…" She walks towards the porch, but it's too late. Tiesen and Chale already have bottles in their hands. Ellen glances to the side and sees Rika walking right beside her.

Rika quirks an eyebrow at Bobby. "May I?"

"Sure thing." He hands her a bottle. Rumsfeld2 bumps his head up against Bobby's leg, and he ignores the fool dog.

"I don't think…" Ellen says, and Rika smiles. She looks amused. "I'm old enough."

"Well, Harvelle?" Bobby growls.

Chale takes a deep drink, they all do, and Ellen doesn't know what else to expect, maybe they'll explode or get angry or something.

Tiesen frowns, just a little, as he swallows. "Good holy water. Vatican?"

"Yep," Bobby says smugly.

Chale and Rika nod. "Thought so," Chale mutters.

Tiesen lifts the bottle up to his mouth, and halfway up, he freezes.

It's such a small gesture, Ellen and Bobby don't notice first. Rumsfeld2 whines like a scolded puppy.

Chale whispers, "Damn." Rika's eyes narrow dangerously.

The hair on the back of Ellen's neck raises up, sharp and painful.

Bobby frowns. Salt water.

_Flesh,_ this voice rumbles. The air smells like salt water. Ellen's vision wavers, like she's seeing everything underwater. Her fingers convulse, and she watches dully as the bottle falls to the ground in slow motion and shatters into pieces.

There's a shadow over the yard now. The light looks red. Shifting panes of light and darker blood red…

_Flesh_, the voice rumbles again. _Why are my Horsemen consorting with mere flesh?_

A sharp stab of pain right between the eyes takes her breath away. She can't see Bobby anymore, or the Horsemen, can't even feel the ground underneath her feet. Ellen stumbles backward, and everything around her goes dark.

* * *

"SAM?"

_**AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH ---**_

"SAM!"

_AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH ---_

"Dude, shut the hell up!"

_AAAAAA---oh…_

Sam lifts his face from Dean's shoulder. His eyes blink open, slowly. He notices several things.

One: he has a death grip around Dean's midsection.

Two: They're not moving forward anymore. Dean's dropped the reins. Samirah stands in one place and turns around and around slowly in a complete circle.

Three: they're out…somewhere. It looks like the desert southwest, red rocks, wide open spaces, clear blue sky, but there's a difference. Sam feels it. The sky overhead is a little too clear, a little too perfect.

Sky. Sam looks up, half expecting to see that raging, churning white cloud overhead. Nothing.

"I think my eardrums are busted. Geez!" Dean grouses. He uselessly shakes his head as though that's going to get the sound of Sam screaming out of his head. "First off, let go of me. We're clear."

Sam looks down at his arms. He wants to let go but they're wrapped securely around Dean's midsection.

"Let go of me, dude. Right the hell now," Dean growls darkly. That growl promises dismemberment and all kinds of unpleasant things.

Sam does, slowly, as though he doesn't want to let go of the only security he's got left in this life…no, this existence. Dean turns half way around in the saddle and quirks an eyebrow at him. "You wanna stretch your legs?"

"Um, I'm good…" Sam rolls his shoulders. He might be a dead man, but there's a tightness between his shoulder blades that's almost painful. Samirah finally stops and stands in one place. She lowers her head until Dean could swear her chin is knocking against her knees, shakes her head from side to side.

"If she's sentient, we shouldn't be riding her anyway," Sam blurts out.

Samirah sighs heavily and then shudders.

"What? Did we go too fast?" Dean snarks to his brother. "Leave your brains back there somewhere? We can always go back and look."

"I mean, she's intelligent, she can talk. Doesn't this feel a little strange, riding her like that? Damn, I mean, sorry…sorry…"

_Such a heavy burden,_ Samirah murmurs softly. _And he never shuts up._

"Way to go Sam. Irritate the hell outta her, why don't ya?"

"I mean – " Sam doesn't even know where all this is coming from. It bubbles up inside him, and he feels awkward and nervous and they were going so fast and they're still pretty high up off the ground….

"Get down. Stretch your damn legs, Sam," Dean grits out.

"Uh, that's okay. I don't—"

"_Now_, dude."

Samirah groans as Sam somehow scrambles off. It's a low noise, full of mock agony. Her knees buckle, and Dean shakes his head as he dismounts. He loops the reins loose over her withers, and Samirah stands there with all four legs splayed out like a newborn foal. Her head's down and despite the pleasant weather she's panting like a dog in summer. Her nostrils are flared wide, and she looks bug-eyed. Her legs wobble.

Dean looks at her and scowls. "You really are full of it, princess."

Sam stands back as he glares at the black horse. His arms are folded across his chest, and his bitchface is in full bloom.

_He's heavy. He's huge,_ Samirah mutters. She cranes her neck around Dean, rolls her eyes at Sam. _He weighs a ton._

"Will you stop that?" Dean puts his hands on his back and stretches. He walks a few feet away and he _changes, _from sleek black into worn denim and brown leather.

Samirah lifts her head, takes a few dancing steps sideways.

Sam falls in beside Dean and Samirah snorts at him.

_You're not gonna start screaming again, are ya? I couldn't hear myself think. _

"I …I wasn't screaming," Sam says out loud.

_Yeah. Yeah you were. _Samirah shakes her head from side to side. _Sooo loud…_

"Dean, your horse is messing with me," Sam says, and then he flinches. Damn, he sounds like he's four.

Dean rolls his eyes. "I don't know why you crazy kids can't behave."

Time to change the subject. "Where the hell are we?"

Dean shrugs. He kneels down and takes a couple of rocks in his hands, then turns and slings one off into the distance. "Somewhen. We're taking the long way back to Bobby's. We're clear. They can't see us or hear us."

Samirah walks around the boys in a wide circle as they walk along.

"Uh," Sam looks around warily, "We're not in Kansas anymore, are we?"

The skin around Dean's eyes crinkles as he smiles. "Never were. Come on. We can walk a little."

They've walked like this in just about every state in the union, down a dusty country road, and it's peaceful, and one of the few quiet times that they have for themselves. No screaming, no blood, no fuglies. Just open sky and wind and the persistent hum of those pesky thoughts inside their heads.

Sam nods towards Samirah. Every other step her tack disappears, and then reappears as she walks around them. Her ears are up, and her expression is alert and happy. She catches Sam staring at her, twitches her tail and buck jumps.

"Is she tired?"

"Who? Samirah? Nah. Sometimes you gotta slow down and smell the roses, Sammy."

Sammy laughs. "You? Slow down?"

"I said _sometimes_."

Sam's seen Dean in every possible mood, but this is a new one. "Where's the Impala?"

"Bobby's got it. I never…" Dean's voice trails off. "I never drove it again after…after…you and Dad _left_."

Sam smiles a little, tightly. "Dad and me _died_, Dean. _We died._ It's okay. You can say it."

Dean purses his lips, and his head gives a sharp sideways tilt. "It's not okay." He glances off to the side at a brownish red rock formation in the distance. "So. Where'd they keep you and Dad?"

"Some freaky dollhouse. We tried to bust out everyday. Windows wouldn't break. Furniture wouldn't either."

"Damn. Think that was Heaven?"

"God, I hope not. You made the deal for me and Dad. With Lillith?"

"Don't need to talk about that." Dean schools his face into a too smooth, almost blank mask. "It's over."

"Dean, you need to talk about it."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah. You do. Deal fell through, didn't it?"

Dean sighs. "I imagine those damn angels showed you that too, huh?"

"Yeah. Me and Dad got the HDTV version. That was before he left." Sam walks along a few more feet, and then he stops short. "What's the Red Dog Inn?"

"The what?"

"Red Dog Inn."

Dean shakes his head. "Jesus," he mutters to himself, and it occurs to him that he said the name and wasn't struck down dead. "Red Dog Inn. Is that…is that what this is?"

Sam nods solemnly. "That's what Dad said."

"Damn," Dean mutters. Samirah drops back to walk beside Sam. Sam glares at her and the animal presses her lips together, tightly, as she tilts her chin at him. She's pouting at him.

"Dad took us on a job up near Niagara Falls. Vengeful spirit stuff. We were just kids. I was ten, you were only six. You were afraid of the fog in the morning, wouldn't come out of the motel until it burned off because you could hear the falls roaring. Said it sounded like a monster in the fog."

Sam frowns. "Did it?"

Dean nods. "Hell yeah it did. I thought it was fun. You hated it up there." Dean stops in the middle of the road. Samirah steps up behind him and lips at the spiky strands of hair at the top of his head.

Dean's so deep in thought he doesn't notice.

"Anyway, that night Dad and I were talking, and he was saying that there could come a time when we might have to get separated deliberately on a job. Said it might be the only way to get intel. He told me he'd leave a message behind, if that ever happened. The message was Red Dog Inn. That was the place we were staying at up there."

Sam's eyes narrow. "So you're telling me that Dad crossed over deliberately," he says flatly.

"Yeah. He did."

"Dad ditched us, Dean."

"No, he didn't."

"Yeah, he did," Sam sticks his chin out defiantly. "And even if this is true, that's a hell of a thing to put on a ten year old."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever." His clothing changes again, into sleek black cloth and glass smooth black leather. Dean's pissed, and Sam knows it. After all this time, Dad's a sore point with Sam. He can't help it, can't leave it alone.

Samirah's ears prick alertly as Dean walks over to her and mounts up. She shakes her head and grumbles to herself when Dean puts his hand out to Sam.

"Come on, dude. We're burning daylight."

Sam takes a step forward. He hears it then, a slight buzzing in the air, from behind him, and it all goes south too quickly for Dean and Samirah to react. Something silver flashes through the air on his right hand side, and even as Sam turns he knows it's too late.

Samirah's wide-eyed. She screams out in rage as Dean jerks backwards in the saddle.

Everything slows down then.

Dean's head rocks backwards, his eyes roll shut. He goes suddenly, completely limp as he's thrown backwards. His boots leave the stirrups as Samirah rears helplessly.

Sam sees silver metal, sharp and pointed, sticking out of Dean's chest, and the air is filled with blood.

* * *

Yeah. I know. I'm evil. TBC Saturday.

As far as I know, there is no "Red Dog Inn" up near Niagara Falls.


	30. Chapter 30

_**A/N: **_It's Saturday. _Abezethibou_ is the Red Sea demon who egged Pharoah on, convinced him to pursue Moses and his people. When the Red Sea closed up again, ol' Abbie was caught and imprisoned in a pilar of seawater.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 30**_

_Abezethibou,_ Tiesen thinks silently.

He can almost see Chale's eye roll in his thought voice. _Finally let him out, huh?_

Rika scoffs. _Since when do we belong to him?_

Chale very gently cradles Ellen in his arms. Rika holds Bobby up without any effort at all. Tiesen scowls as he looks at Rumsfeld2 stretched out on the porch. The humans and the dog are unconscious, but still alive. For now.

The low-hanging clouds over Singer Salvage Yard churn blood red, and the wind picks up as the clouds swirl upwards, taking shape. Coal black eyes open in the red mist. A gigantic cloud formation in the shape of a massive wing blots out the sky as drops of salt water fall.

_It is a brand new day. The seals of the Red Sea have been broken. _

"Damn things always like to hear themselves talk."Chale mutters out loud.

_I have returned in triumph,_ Abezethibou breathes roughly. _You three need to go on with your business. Kill the flesh, and then go do your job._

The horses shake their manes from side to side, and one by one, Ajani, Ismael, and Actaeon walk over and stand next to their riders.

"Lillith reneged on the deal with our brother Gaelen," Rika says, loudly, clearly.

The demon blinks as it leans forward. Mini-dust devils skip across the ground as lightning flashes overhead. _Gaelen has proved to be…unsuitable._

Tiesen glances at Rika and Chale. _Get them out of here. NOW._

He steps forward, puts himself squarely between Abezethibou and the others. As Ajani steps up beside Tiesen, the huge red horse's eyes flare bright copper. Tiesen swings into the saddle, and as he does his red armor settles comfortably around him.

The fallen angel's pitch black eyes widen in shock. _You can't do this. _

Ajani sidesteps, shrugs as he picks up the reins. "As you said, it's a new day."

Tiesen doesn't turn around as the others fade out behind him. He senses the blankness behind him, and he smiles a little. They're gone. They're safe. He gathers up the reins, feels Ajani gather himself underneath him. _Been a long time coming,_ Tiesen thinks to himself.

He wonders if another War is waiting in the wings. Never really thought about it before. He'd always been sure of his place in the world. Now he's not so sure.

"Time to get down to business," Tiesen murmurs to Ajani, and the big red horse lunges forward.

* * *

"Dean! Dean!" Sam scrambles forward, and it's like he's moving through water, like the air between he and Dean has gotten thick as freshly poured cement. Dean hit the ground on his back, his arms and legs loose and boneless on impact, and he hasn't moved since.

"Can't be dead. Can't be. Oh God," Sam thinks to himself, "God, please, please don't", and it's automatic, he doesn't think about the angels, doesn't think about what's happened to him so far. He's always believed in a higher power, always believed there was good in this world, and on some level he still does, no matter what.

Dean lies there on the ground so still and pale, and Sam swears he can hear Dean's blood trickle out of him, a quiet sound like water dripping out of a broken jar. His black clothes are soaked with blood, and that silver blade sticking up from the middle of Dean's chest shines dully, in sharp contrast to everything else.

Sam finally gets there, and he's on his hands and knees. He's afraid to touch Dean, and he's afraid not to. _Dean's Death,_ Sam thinks in a panic, _how the hell could this take him down like that? _

All Sam can do is stare, and things go from bad to worse, like they always seem to.

Dean's blood doesn't look right.

Sam sees copper sparks all around the entrance wound. He can't quite wrap his mind around it, but it looks as though he's seeing Dean's blood short circuit. He can almost hear the snap and sizzle of energy. The thing in Dean's chest looks even worse close up.

It's not a blade. It's a spear.

Or at least, it's part of one. The rest of the shaft is broken off, at least five inches below the edge of the metal blade. The bottom of the spear looks old, older than anything that Sam has ever seen before. There are slight dents in the metal, as though a blacksmith hammered the metal into shape a long, long time ago. The metal edges are jagged, with pits all along the edge. Two flat, slim metal spikes, copper colored, are on each side, held in place with thin bands of silver metal. The calm rational part of Sam estimates that the tapered point of the thing is six inches wide. The spear is eighteen inches long.

Nine inches of that is buried inside Dean.

The shaft goes up and down slowly, slightly, in time with Dean's breathing. Sam wants to pull it out, and he knows if he does, that would be the worst thing he could ever do. Dean will bleed out, or if not that, something bad will happen. Sam's sure of it.

Samirah makes a noise, a low murmur of pain, and Sam glances around. The huge black horse stands a few feet away, the muscles underneath her sleek black coat quivering. Her back is to Sam, and he can't see her face, but he can tell by her body language that she's in distress, tell by the way that her head hangs down and her legs wobble. She was playing before. She's in pain now, and Sam knows it. He'd like to go check her.

But he can't leave his brother.

"Dean?" Sam whispers. "Dean?"

The spear jerks as Dean's back arches off the ground. Sam sees a ripple of muscle tension go down Dean's arms, through his body, down his legs. Dean's fingers claw at the ground as his back goes down again.

His eyes flicker open. Green, not copper. Human. Tired.

And probably dying.

"S-Sam?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here." Dean's right arm moves feebly in Sam's direction. Sam looks down in horror as he realizes that Dean's right hand, that lightshow of a hand, is gone.

Sam touches Dean's arm on the elbow instead. "Dude, it's okay. I'm here."

Dean stares dazedly at the spear. The freckles across the bridge of his nose are in sharp contrast to the deathly paleness of his skin. "Damn," Dean breathes. "…destiny…"

"What?"

"s-spear …" Dean whispers. "…of…of…destiny…"

"Dean, how the hell can this affect you like this?"

"I dunno…I guess…I guess…they found a way, huh?"

"I gotta do something…"

Dean's grin is a mere shadow of his usual bright grin. "I'm…'m done, Sam. I am. I know it…how's…how's my girl?"

"Who?"

"S-Samirah…."

"She's…she's still on her feet."

"Want you to ride her," Dean says thickly.

"What?"

"Heard me. You gotta…" Dean grimaces. "You gotta get clear."

"I'm not leaving you."

"…c--can't go to Bobby's. 's not safe…." Dean's eyes are even glassier now, horribly blank.

Sam glances up as a shadow falls over them both.

_Gaelen…_Samirah pushes her nose softly against the side of Dean's face.

Dean smiles weakly. "You okay?"

_No._

"…can…can you run?"

She nods.

"…want you…take Sam…go on…"

Sam sticks his chin out defiantly. "I'm not leaving."

Dean ignores him. "…you get him clear, hear me? You get him clear…"

"I'm not leaving you, Dean. _You _can't make me. _She_ can't either."

Samirah shakes her head. _No. _

Dean blinks slowly. "What?"

Samirah plants all four feet firmly on the ground. _Not leaving. We live together, we die together._

"…have to…you gotta go, you hear me?" Dean coughs four times in quick succession. It's a rough, unhealthy sound. Sam flinches as he watches the spear jerk in time to his brother's spasms.

"Dean, easy…."

"…don't do this…coming…they're coming…"

The air is filled with the sound of wingbeats, the rustling of feathers overhead.

"As a matter of fact," Uriel says calmly, from behind, "we're already here."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ TBC next week. What? Don't look at me like that. You already got two chapters this week.


	31. Chapter 31

_**A/N: **_ This chapter is not as long as I wanted it to be, but I'm posting it anyway, since I could not post last week as I promised.

* * *

_**Chapter 31**_

"Well?" Rika says quietly. She sounds a little too abrupt, too harsh. She knows this, and she instantly regrets it. It's come to this, everything all somehow twisted around. Things were so simple before.

If he takes offense, Chale doesn't show it. He straightens up, looks from Ellen Harvelle in the one bed, to Bobby Singer and Rumsfeld2 in the other. The humans and the dog are unconscious, but still breathing. There's that, at least.

"They'll wake up soon. Mortals can't take being around pure hellspawn for long. Another five minutes of that…" Chale shakes his head. He doesn't need to mention that they would have died.

Rika nods. "All right then." She turns for the door and strides out to the courtyard. The house and grounds are quiet, secluded, with no servants. The location is somewhere, somewhen. Hopefully no one will think to look for them there.

It's the very first time in either of their eternal lives that they've ever had to think that way.

"Hey, wait a minute ---"

Rika hesitates for the barest second, and the only reason she does is because another vision hits her, stronger than the others she's had since they got here.

Chale falls silent, and she knows he's seeing the same thing too: The sky above Singer Salvage is red with thick, boiling clouds that blot out the sun. The clouds sharpen into long spear shapes that pierce the ground, the house and everything around it, and the only thing Rika can hear is the sound of Ajani whinnying angrily, and the thud of heavy bodies slamming together booms like thunder.

Tiesen's laugh is deep and joyful.

"Idiot," Rika mutters to herself. She walks a little faster now, and Chale's right behind her. She holds her tongue until they reach the courtyard, and even the horses lift their heads and prick their ears at the sharpness in her voice when she turns around to face him.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Where the hell do you think?" Chale snaps back. The air around him fairly vibrates with something equally pointed, something neither of them have felt ever before: worry.

There's no sign of Gaelen or Samirah. Nothing. It's a terrifying blank spot, another first that makes Rika and Chale feel awkward and uncertain.

"You have to stay here." She gestures towards the house. "With them. I'm going to help Tiesen."

"We'll both go." Chale says stubbornly.

Rika's huge white mare, Actaeon, steps up behind her, just as Chale's dappled grey, Ismael, comes forward.

"You stay." Rika turns and gathers up the reins. "You can heal them if something happens. You can defend this place. I can't heal anybody."

The air twelve feet away stirs, and what steps through looks like a red cloud formation in the shape of a horse and rider. The horse whinnies roughly, shakes its head from side to side, and the red clouds are shaken off like drops of water.

Tiesen's red armor is dented, with scrape marks and burn holes everywhere. Ajani stands there quietly, with his head still up, even though his sleek red hide is bruised and burned. Rika and Chale approach on one side as Ishmael walks up on the other.

"Miss me?" Tiesen's smirk is wicked sharp, despite his injuries.

"You damn fool," Chale mutters, but he smiles a little too.

Ajani staggers to the side. Ishmael leans hard into him, keeps the big red stallion on his feet.

Tiesen's head rocks back as he goes limp in the saddle; Chale catches him as he falls.

* * *

"…tol' you to go…tol' you…." Dean gasps. Sam tightens his grip on Dean's right arm, as Samirah snarls and steps forward, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

The air around them is a blur of motion, dark feathers blotting out the sun.

Dean lies there, panting in short, sharp breaths, the spear moving up and down inside him, sharp, heavy.

_…Gaelen…_

Samirah's voice, muffled and faint, from a distance.

Dean grunts as he pushes himself up on his elbows. The shaft of the spear jiggles a little as the lips of the wound open a little more. Shafts of copper and gold light stream upwards around the metal.

Uriel's right _there_, in Sam's place instead.

Sam and Samirah are gone.

Uriel puts both hands on the shaft of the spear and pushes down hard. Bright copper and gold sparks fly up into the air as the spear tip burns into Dean's flesh and blood, the pointed tip slants down deeper inside him.

Dean throws his head back and screams.

Uriel places both hands around the broken spear shaft as he leans forward, bears down with his full weight.

"Gnnuuhhh…" The sound Dean makes is low, rough and desperate as his shoulders lift up from the ground. He can't feel his legs anymore.

"No vengeance for you. Lillith wanted a limited Apocalypse. My brothers and sisters want it all."

"f-fuck y-you…"

Uriel laughs. "How eloquent. It's not our plan, not our time. We took the spear from them, Winchester. Can't you tell how many of your fellow Horsemen Lillith had killed with it? Are you really that dull, you can't sense any of it?"

Dean's eyes widen, grow dull and blank, and he can't see or hear Uriel, can't feel the metal digging into his chest anymore.

He sees them.

Atiyanna rode away on her cremello Akhal-Teke, Muzzafer. Jov and his mount, Alesar, a dark bay Egyptian Arabian, Misha and Barakah, his rabicano Arab, Natassia and her chestnut Barb stallion, Atifa.

He sees them, and more.

Dead, dying, bleeding, staring into eternity with blank dead white eyes, not copper, brown, blue, or hazel.

Even the horses were killed with the spear.

"So you see?" Uriel whispers into Dean's ear. "Lillith's plan needed you all along. The love you have for your brother and your father? Perfect. You were the one that would follow through." Uriel rumbles laughter. "I can't touch your father. Seems that Anna and Castiel do not share my views. But your brother?"

…miles away…Sam and Samirah are miles away…

Dean sees shiny, man-shaped outlines of light, faint shadows where the eyes, nose and mouth should be. They cover Sam, they're all around him, pressing him into the ground, shading his face with their dark wings. Bright fingers cover Sam's mouth. Sam's eyes, =and still defiant, are the last thing to be covered up.

"D-Dean?" Sam chokes out.

"… and that nag of yours?" Uriel murmurs.

Samirah lies on the ground on her side, and the bastards are all over her too. Her muzzle is clamped shut, and she tosses her head defiantly once more, her eyes blazing bright copper before they pull her down and cover her up completely with their bodies and those massive wings.

Coarse sandy soil rises up all around them. The light above them dims.

_…Gaelen…_Samirah flails helplessly, unable to get to her feet.

"We'll drag them both down to hell and leave them there…" Uriel smiles as he bears down.

Dean holds his breath. That doesn't dull the pain, nothing does, and he can only listen to the snap and sizzle as he burns. He lashes out with his left hand and slams his fist into the left side of Uriel's face. The vessel's flesh melts like soft candlewax.

Half the vessel's face is gone, from his forehead down to his chin, and Uriel is still smiling.

Dean hits him again as Uriel pushes down even harder. Droplets of flesh and bone fly into the air, and the angel's essence is exposed, shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. A shadow falls over Dean's face as Uriel's wings unfurl.

"We don't have all day for this," Uriel says, rather pleasantly. He laughs as he grips the shaft of the spear and pulls backwards. The light inside Dean pours outwards and upward, thick streamers of pale gold and copper light.

A moment later, Uriel screams, loud and long.

* * *

_Get off me!_ Sam rages inside his head. _You sons of bitches, get off me!_

The hands over his mouth clamp down even tighter. He tries not to sneeze as feathers tickle his nose. They press into him from all sides, and Sam knows the direction they're going is down, not up.

Sam hears something else, and it's faint at first.

They're below ground now, and all he can see is dirt and grassroots. The angels are talking among themselves, high-pitched and screechy. It's not the heavenly choir he always imagined it would be, and somehow Sam senses laughter at first.

They're not laughing anymore.

_Sam?_

Sam's eyes widen. He can see a bright light through his eyelids. The angels chatter among themselves, at a higher pitch this time.

_Dean?_

_

* * *

_Damn pigeons, Samirah thinks to herself. She can't even straighten her legs, can't kick out at them, can't even open her mouth to bite. They tighten their grip on her body and her muzzle, and the feathers over her eyes flatten down over her eyelids. They chatter among themselves, and she lays her ears back at the sound. She knows they're laughing, laughing at her and Gaelen and Sam, knows they're headed _down_, not _up_.

The laughter stops.

_Samirah?_

She pricks her ears.

_Gaelen?_

* * *

That whiskey smooth voice is just as warm and friendly as ever.

_Keep your eyes closed._

_Don't look. Whatever you do, don't look._

* * *

The fingers over his eyes slide away. Sam's tempted to look, tempted to crack open his eyes, but this is Dean, after all, and if Dean says don't look, Sam doesn't look.

The light gets brighter. Sam curls in on himself, even when he feels the grip on his body loosen. The angels pull away, and Sam still crouches there. He hugs his knees to his chest, and he doesn't move, he _won't_ move. The air moves gently around him, rustles his hair and his clothes, light and familiar, and Sam's pretty damn sure that whatever else is going on, those feathered bastards are not liking this. _Not one damn bit._

It's Death and the power of the Colt all mixed into one, spilled out into this space, filling it up from horizon to horizon.

It's _Dean._

Sam can hear him, Samirah can hear him, begging, pleading, directing the power: _not Sam, not Samirah, you don't touch them, you hear me, you don't -_

If Sam decided to open his eyes, if Samirah decided to open her eyes, this is what they would see: The sky burns overhead. Despite their frantic wingbeats the angels are yanked upwards anyway, bore aloft by twisting streamers of copper and gold. Angel feathers blacken and curl into fine light grey ash, shadowy mouths open in soundless screams as their wings flail helplessly in the burning air.

Flaming bits spiral up into the air, as blackened feathers lazily drift to the ground.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Another chapter this week, a longer one, I promise.


	32. Chapter 32

_**A/N: **_SciFiNutTX gave me the idea for Chale's insight on one of the interim Death Horsemen. Thanks!

* * *

_**Black Horse Chapter 32**_

Sam opens his eyes and looks around. The crater around him is ten feet in diameter. Overhead the clouds are light and darker shades of reddish orange and gold. The clouds slowly rotate like the eye of a hurricane; the center of the eye is about a mile away.

Dean's _there._ Sam can feel him, a flash of wide green eyes, a cocky, slightly lopsided smirk, the rumble of the Impala's engine. Metal screeches against metal. Sam sees a barn, large and old, something he would have seen on the History Channel, and he knows it's one of Gaelen's memories, knows Gaelen's father is sharpening his ax so he can murder his son.

Samirah races past him just as Sam gets slowly to his feet. She carries her tail like a flag as she runs flat out, ears pricked, her eyes focused on the sky in the distance.

"Hey!" Right after he yells the word out Sam realizes that she wouldn't have stopped for him anyway. She's Dean's horse. _Gaelen's _horse.

Sam's stiff and sore from crouching down like that. Maybe being a spirit isn't what it's all cracked up to be after all. He groans a little as he stretches his legs, and then he runs.

* * *

The images roll over them all, the Horsemen and their horses. It's flame and rage, blackened feathers and screaming. Tiesen leans heavily into Chale. None of them blink until it's over.

"Overgrown pigeons," Rika mutters to herself once it passes. She swings into the saddle. Actaeon wheels around and they ride off without another word.

* * *

One time, long ago Tiesen and Chale sat on the hillside with their horses and watched the countryside burn. The screams of the dying filled the air, then got softer and quieter and finally ceased altogether. Gaelen and Samirah were at work below.

"Everything changes, brother," Tiesen told him. "Everything changes, but we don't."

_Guess you were wrong about that,_ Chale thinks to himself as he looks at his brother's sleeping, bruised face. He's used to healing humans and humans. Healing his fellow Horsemen? That's different. He's making a habit of that lately.

Chale wonders what condition Rika and Gaelen will be in when they come back.

Gaelen was shy and reserved when he first joined them, but he had a sly sense of humor once he loosened up. His replacement was Andreas. Andreas was tall, pale and thin almost to the point of being skeletal. He was sensitive about the way he looked, always hung back too long after the others rode through, because he was Death, and Death always made a grand entrance, never mind that the humans suffered in the meantime.

And that horse of his, Suhayl? _Gahh._ He was a whiny bastard.

"My feet hurt. My back hurts. I'm tired. Why do we have to run so much?" Suhayl complained so much Ishmael bared his teeth at him and threatened to bite him on more than one occasion.

The day Andreas rode off with Suhayl was a happy day, indeed.

Rumsfeld2 comes over and sits down on Chale's left foot as he takes the chair by the window. The big Rottie was the first one to wake up; mortal animals usually bounce back quicker than humans. They're able to shake off just about anything, and Chale guesses it's because they live in the present and don't worry about anything.

Worry's something new, and Chale hates it. He's got a list of brand new things that he hates, stuff he'd never felt before.

Rumsfeld2 grins as Chale absentmindedly scratches the underside of the dog's chin.

A quick glance at Ellen Harvelle and Bobby Singer, sleeping in the other beds, and Chale notes with some satisfaction that their color is better, their breathing is slow and steady. _Never thought I'd feel this way about another human woman, _he thinks to himself. _Don't know where this is gonna lead, either. _

Outside in the courtyard Ishmael and Ajani stand quietly together. Ishmael's already asleep. Ajani's eyes are closed; his head rests on Ishmael's dappled grey rump. It's been an hour since Chale laid hands on Ajani, and the big red stallion is already looking better. His tail and mane are fuller, and the cuts and burns on his sleek crimson hide are already half healed.

Chale sits there, and it's a rare quiet time for him, listening to the humans breathe, watching the dog grin as he pets him. It's the quiet before the storm. Chale knows that, and he can't help but wonder if this is how humans feel just before they lose everyone they love.

* * *

That circle of scorched earth raises the hair on the back of Sam's neck, stiff and painful. It's fifty feet in diameter, larger than the one he found himself in before. That sense of _Dean_ is even stronger now, but Sam can't see him.

What he _does_ see is Samirah pacing around in a circle. She seems agitated; her nostrils flare red and wide open and her head is down and cocked slightly to the side. She's staring at something on the ground, but what really catches Sam's attention is this tall twisted tree standing a few feet away. The surface of this thing is rough and pitted, scorched a blackish brown.

Thing is, Sam doesn't remember any trees out here from before. He takes a few more steps closer, stops and stares. He sees a head, eyes twin holes of blackness, the mouth stretched wide and gaping.

_Not Dean, please…_

Sam's heart jerks sideways like a skittish foal.

_No, please…_

Sam realizes that the branches aren't branches at all. They're wings, shriveled and twisted up and behind the figure's back, both arms thrown up in a defensive posture, not quite the boxing pose of a burn victim, because the arms are extended, the fingers reaching out instead of hooked and claw-like.

It's Uriel.

Sam can't even bring himself to care.

He turns to watch Samirah; he follows her line of sight down to this object on the ground. At first Sam can't wrap his head around what he's seeing, then his stomach thuds down to the soles of his boots.

That's not a rock sticking out of the ground. Sam recognizes the slope of the shoulder, sees black leather, the back of a head resting on the ground at a sideways slant, short spiky hair, all covered in a layer of grey ash and brown dust.

Dean's half buried, with only his right shoulder and head above ground.

"Dean! Oh God ---"

_Get away from him!_ Eyes blazing, Samirah lunges forward, teeth bared.

"Samirah ---"

Sam stumble-steps backwards. She's right up in his face, rearing up on her hind legs, screaming. He can feel her rage in the air, and her hooves glow white hot. He lands on his ass with a hard thump that travels right up his spine, makes his jaws snap together, and then he's backpedaling on his hands and feet. Clumps of coarse sandy soil sting his skin as she kicks out at him. Just because he's already dead doesn't mean that she couldn't put him in a world of hurt.

"Samirah, look ---" Sam scrambles to his feet. The black horse glares at him and Sam glares right back, his chin stuck out defiantly, both fists balled up. "I can dig him out, okay? You can stomp the hell outta me if you want to, but I'm gonna dig him out."

Samirah paws the ground with her right foreleg. Another tense moment, and she breaks it first by turning around and walking back. She gently lips at the side of Dean's face.

Dean doesn't move.

Sam and Samirah eye each other warily, but she moves out of the way as Sam kneels and touches his brother's face.

Dean's still warm. He looks like he's sleeping. Brown dust and grey ash coats his eyelashes, hides his freckles and the paleness of his skin. Sam's fingers shake as he tries to wipe the dust and grit off. Sam presses his fingertips against the underside of Dean's jaw.

There's no pulse.

Samirah groans softly to herself. She lowers her head and closes her eyes.

"Dean?" Sam says out loud. The soil packed around Dean is loose and sandy, so Sam uses both hands to dig with.

This is stupid. It's crazy, Dean's Death, he shouldn't have a pulse, or breathe, shouldn't do any of those things, but he did and now he doesn't. Sam laughs and there's nothing humorous about the sound, it's frightened and hysterical and right now he doesn't give a damn because Dean has to wake up, he has to, damn it, because Dad's still gone and so is Mom and Jess and even though Sam's just a spirit now he can't be alone, not like this, not when they just found each other again ---

"Dean," Sam gasps as he scoops the soil away from around his brother's body with both hands. "You can't leave me alone like this, you hear me? You can't.

Sam's voice rises, gets louder. "Don't you leave me now, you hear me? Don't you leave me...no...no..."

Sam curses Uriel, he curses the fucking spear, he curses the angels, and he curses himself.

Seems like it takes years, but Sam finally pulls Dean free from the hole in the ground, and he flinches as he wraps his arms around his brother. Dean's limp, lifeless. His head lolls bonelessly to one side and that shatters any illusion Sam might have had that Dean's just asleep.

"Dean…please…don't leave me…don't…"

Dean doesn't answer.

"No. No! You're not dead, you hear me?" Sam hugs Dean to his chest and rocks back and forth, over again. "Dean, please…please…come back to me, all right? Please...come back to me..."

Sam begs, Sam pleads.

And the sky answers.

* * *

The wind picks up. Samirah lifts her head, opens her eyes. The fire in the sky overhead begins to rotate, slowly at first, in a downward angle, like a funnel cloud touching down.

Samirah stands there wide-eyed, and it should be comical, but it's not. This should be something the black horse has seen before, but it's clear that she's just as freaked out as Sam is, and Sam just sits there stupidly watching as the clouds and flames spiral down.

Sam tightens his grip on Dean and he doesn't move, he can't, not even as Samirah rushes towards him. She gets behind him and Sam's yanked backwards, and he's dimly aware that she's got him by the collar, her slim legs pumping furiously to get him as far away from Dean, as quick as she can. Sam loses his grip on Dean, watches helplessly as Dean lies there on his back, pale and lifeless.

Samirah turns in her own space as quick as a cat. She bares her teeth as she pushes into Sam, and as tall as he is, there's no contest. She uses her height and weight to push him further and further away.

"Get off me. Damn you, get the hell off me ----"

The fire narrows to a point and pours into that huge gaping hole in Dean's chest.

Dean's eyes jerk open, wide and staring and blank at first. Colors spark, green and copper and gold, and the scars around his right eye glow and shimmer. His right hand flickers in and out, and he claws at the ground with both hands as his back arches, suspended by the top of his head at one end, and his boot heels at the other.

The sound Dean makes is one impossibly long, hollow intake of breath. He's lit up from the inside as the fire empties itself into his body.

The heat and light is so intense Sam stumbles backwards. Samirah puts her shoulder up against him and pushes him back. Sam's dazzled by the light, blinded. All he can see is Samirah's huge black bulk, and behind her light as bright as the afternoon sun.

Just as suddenly, the light winks out.

* * *

The whisper's soft and rough at the same time. "Samirah?"

Sam blinks. It's a race to see who gets there first, a dead heat, really, as Sam suddenly finds himself on his knees next to his brother, and Samirah stands over him, joyously nuzzling Dean's face and hair.

"…here…I'm here," Dean whispers brokenly. His fingers shake as he raises his right hand to touch Samirah's muzzle.

"I thought he'd killed you, Dean…thought you died…" Sam's babbling, and he just doesn't care right now.

"Dean?" Wide green eyes blink slowly; he looks confused. "That's not my name."

"W-what?"

"My name is Gaelen."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Hey, it's not my usual cliffie. Thought I'd end on a happy note (sorta). Next chapter will be posted on Saturday.


	33. Chapter 33

_**A/N: **_I borrowed a detail from Season 5 in this one. You'll recognize it when you see it.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 33**_

Sam wants to throw his head back and howl at the sky. _It's not fair! Not fucking fair! I dug him out, I'm the one holding him! Me! He's my brother, damn it! MINE!_

Samirah pricks her ears up alertly. She's _happy_.

_Bitch. _

"Head hurts…" Gaelen whispers roughly. He stares wide eyed at his glowing right hand, rubs his fingertips together. Pinpoints of bright light spark the air between his fingertips. "What is _this_?" It takes Sam a second or two to realize that Dean…that _Gaelen_ is talking to the horse, _not_ him.

Sam's bitchface slips out sideways. "Stop that!" He doesn't mean to snap, but he's freaked out by this. "Dean…whatever…whatever just happened must've scrambled your brains."

Gaelen sits up, and Sam doesn't miss the fact that he wheezes and wobbles as he steadies himself. Samirah moves in closer, and Gaelen leans against her left foreleg.

"Dean?" Sam wants to reach out, wants to touch Dean (_it's Dean, damn it!)_ on the shoulder. He doesn't. It was always dangerous touching Dean when he didn't want to be touched, and Sam has the sense that Gaelen is no different. "It's me. I'm Sam. I'm your brother."

Gaelen's voice is lighter than Dean's, more formal somehow, and what he says next chills Sam to the bone. "I don't have a brother."

* * *

The ground is so hot the soul inside Alastair's new meatsuit shrieks in agony.

Alastair doesn't mind.

The world is filled with meat, and there's plenty more where this one came from. Alastair doesn't even blink when his hair catches on fire, and the skin on his face sags, runs soft like melted wax. His clothes disintegrate into ashes on the wind.

He walks past the blackened ruin of Bobby Singer's house, and when the body Alastair's stolen takes an involuntary breath, its lungs shrivel from the superheated air.

The demon Abezethibou lies there on the ground. The upper part of him, that is.

The legs and lower part is several feet away.

Alastair leans forward, and he can't help but notice the details. In his line of work he can appreciate the amount of force and the finesse it would take to do such damage. Abezethibou's wing has been broken in two. Both horns have been snapped off, and both halves of its body and all four limbs are twisted and broken. Considering that Abezethibou was in his natural cloud state for at least part of the fight, this is quite impressive, actually.

Alastair wonders how it would be to use his knives on a Horseman, to have one strapped down on his rack.

That's something to think about.

"They wouldn't listen to me," Abezethibou moans. It flops around on the ground, unable to raise itself up. "You said they would listen to me."

Alastair cocks his head to one side. "Well. I was wrong."

"They have their roles to play," the demon sputters. "We all_ do_. They _can't do this!_"

"As you said, it's a new day." The top of Alastair's skull pops open as heat builds up inside his meatsuit.

A few feet away the ground cracks and opens up. The scrabble of claws on the baked earth and the smell of sulfur makes Alastair smile. Something large bulls its way up out of the ground, and three more follow.

"There's my good boys," he purrs, and the four hellhounds wiggle with joy at the sound of his voice. They're huge beasts, with thick, scaly red and black skin, wide mouths filled with jagged white teeth. The smallest one, easily the size of a draft horse, shakes the dirt from its scaly hide and wags its stump of a tail. The alpha hound comes forward and sinks down on its belly in front of Alastair, as do the others.

"Fetch!" Alastair calls out. With that one word the hounds get up and roam over what's left of Bobby Singer's place with their noses to the ground. The alpha picks up the scent first, barks happily as it disappears. The rest follow.

"I was supposed to come in triumph this time…" Abezethibou mutters to itself.

Alastair shakes his head and manages an eye roll, just as his eyes shrivel in their sockets. "Pathetic," he rumbles. "Just pathetic."

* * *

"No," Sam says out loud. "Don't you turn your back on me." He gets to his feet, walks around until they're facing each other again. Samirah rumbles softly as she lips strands of Gaelen's hair at the top of his head. Gaelen smiles a little. His eyes are moss green, not copper. Sam doesn't know what that means, but maybe Dean's not that far away.

"I don't know you," Gaelen says tiredly.

"Yeah. Yeah you do." Sam kneels. He drops his hands down in front of him, and it bothers him how weak he looks, bothers him too that Gaelen watches his hands and his eyes.

_He doesn't trust me,_ Sam thinks. _If he could he'd mount up and ride away._

Sam realizes that he's within striking distance of Samirah's left hindleg, but he doesn't move away. "Your name is Dean. Dean Michael Winchester."

Samirah slaps him in the back of his head with her tail. "Will you stop that!" Sam snarls.

_Sorry._ Of course, she's _not_.

"I woke up here," Gaelen says slowly. His eyes narrow when he spots Uriel's twisted, scorched remains. Sam can almost see a flash of recognition in those eyes, but it's gone in a split second.

"You don't remember what happened before? With the angel? And the spear?"

Gaelen looks at him warily, and that look says _You're crazy_. "No."

Sam motions towards what's left of Uriel. "You stopped him. You did that, Dean."

Gaelen bristles at the name. "Enough." The growl that comes out of him is so Dean-like Sam freezes in place.

Samirah kneels down on her forelegs. Gaelen raises up and swings up into the saddle. A second later she's up on all fours again.

"I don't know what this is about," Gaelen snarls as he gathers up the reins. "I do know _one_ thing. I don't know _you_. I know _who_ and _what_ I am, and I'm _not_ your brother."

Samirah turns in the opposite direction and Sam's up on his feet before he knows it. "The yellow eyed Demon killed our mother. You killed him months ago." Sam yells out. It's all words, and its not slick or smooth, just the first things that come to mind. "You defied him hundreds of years ago. Look at yourself! Why are your clothes torn like that? Why's your hand like that? Those scars around your right eye, you got them when the Colt blew up in your hand up in Devil's Gate. You're my brother, Gaelen. Your name is Dean Winchester in this life, and I think a part of you knows it!"

Samirah walks a few more feet, and then stops.

Even from the back Sam can see Gaelen's head tilt forward and down a little, as he glances at his chest.

Sam doesn't even remember running around to face them again, but he gets there in a heartbeat. Gaelen's hand shakes as he fingers the front of his greatcoat. It's dusty brown now. His eyes widen as he looks at the rip in his clothes. His chest is well-muscled, covered with freckles, and the nine inch long scar in his skin is a slightly raised stripe that's a little darker than the rest of him.

"You see that?" Sam says softly. "You were hit by the spear of destiny." Sam nods towards the angel's remains. "Uriel was here, and he tried to kill you."

"Samirah?" Gaelen looks down at her, hesitant, somehow insecure. Despite the scars around his right eye and the light stubble Gaelen looks young, almost as young as Sam now. "Is this true?"

The animal sighs. Her shoulders slump as she drops her head, flicks her ears backward. _Yes._

"And we were going to ride off and leave him like this?" Gaelen says quietly. He sounds amused at how possessive she can be.

_I don't like to share. You know that_, Samirah grumbles. She paws the ground with her right foreleg and shrugs. _I was going to tell you. Sometime._

"Uh huh." Gaelen's still not too steady as he dismounts. He stares Sam up and down, from head to toe, with a look something like wonder on his face. "I have another brother," Gaelen says, and Sam just nods. "You have a father and a mother. John and Mary Winchester."

"Are they alive?"

Sam shakes his head. "No. They're both dead."

"Oh." Gaelen's face goes blank. He sits down somewhat awkwardly and motions for Sam to join him. "I need to hear this now."

Sam feels light and giddy, like he'd blow away on the first really strong breeze. He schools his face into a solemn expression, even though he feels like jumping up and down and yelling. Of course, there's always the chance that Dean would come out then, look at him and drawl, "Dude, you're embarrassing me."

Gaelen might just mount up again and ride off if he started grinning like a loon, so Sam goes for dignified instead. At least, he tries to.

He sits down opposite Gaelen, and tells him about Dean.

* * *

The first two hellhounds pick up Rika and Actaeon's trail not long after they separate from the pack. Actaeon snuffles and shakes her head; Rika smiles a little as she senses the beasts. They're no real threat. She deliberately turns away from Gaelen and Samirah's trail, and a mile behind horse and rider the hounds follow, patiently sniffing the ground and the air.

All the younger hound knows is it's feeling very hungry all of a sudden. It _wants_ to eat.

It _has_ to eat.

The older hound dies, its throat ripped out in a heartbeat. The carcass is stripped down to bones in a matter of seconds, and it's not enough, not even when the bones and organs are crunched into powder and gulped down in hasty mouthfuls. The younger hound feels its stomach and ribs cave in. It's _so_ hungry, and there's no other meat around.

It eats its left foreleg first. The rest follows, as much as it can reach, as far as it can reach. It turns in on itself, until there's nothing left.

The other two die of disease.

They were sent to fetch, and Chale figures it's really an insult to think that these two overgrown pups could even think about taking any Horseman down. Rumsfeld2 whines at the sight of the monsters prowling the perimeter of the courtyard. He hides behind Chale, whimpering, his ears flattened against his head.

"It's okay, boy. Settle down now."

It's not even worth waking Tiesen up. Chale sends the two hounds away with barely a thought.

They reappear in hell, slavering and snarling at each other, and at the other hellhounds who come to investigate their arrival. The Croatan virus leaps from hellhound to hellhound, with every drop of saliva from bared teeth and fangs. They rip each other to shreds.

There's no trail, no way to backtrack the whereabouts of the Horsemen.

Alastair's day turns from bad to worse, and he takes his rage out on the souls strapped to his rack.

* * *

Sam finally, _finally_ runs out of words. He can't read Gaelen, and he's not surprised at that. There were times when Dean was just as unreachable. The more things change…

"Well?" Sam says quietly.

Gaelen sits there. He blinks. Then he shakes his head and stares at the ground. "I'm…I'm sorry. You told me this. I believe you because…"

"Because Samirah vouches for me," Sam says flatly.

"That's right." Gaelen nods. "But I don't remember any of this on my own."

Samirah slinks past, and the first thing Sam notices is she doesn't have her tack on. Her head is down, ears pricked forward, her tail held high. She's more cat-like than equine now, and at first the hair on the back of Sam's neck stands out, straight and painful. Those eyes of hers blaze copper, and it's a damn crazy sight until Sam realizes that she's focused on Uriel.

Or what's left of him.

Gaelen turns to watch. Sam does too. Samirah circles Uriel once, and then she rears up on her hind legs and lashes out with her forelegs. Uriel's head breaks off, rolls along the ground like a soccer ball, and Samirah actually moves it along with her front hooves, just as smoothly as any soccer player would. She gets bored after a few feet, and that's when her hooves glow with white hot heat as she stomps the head into ashes.

The rest of Uriel goes down rather quickly as Samirah gets to work with her front and back legs, kicking and slashing. She dances on top of the remains. It's all reduced to ashes, and soon there's not much left of _that_.

"Damn," Sam breathes.

Gaelen snorts a little. Sam can see he's trying to be dignified too.

* * *

Samirah's just finished one last stomp on Uriel, when Gaelen looks up at the sky and frowns slightly. "I think we'd better get going."

"You remember where we're going?"

"I know where my people are," Gaelen says simply. "I can sense them." He gestures towards the far horizon. "They're that way."

Gaelen's eyes spark copper, and the greatcoat and cassock he wears suddenly changes back to sleek black cloth and black leather. The sight makes Sam's heart sink; he wanted to see worn blue jeans and battered brown leather, wanted to see that again with all his heart. Sam glances quickly away, in the other direction, as Gaelen gets to his feet, still rather shakily.

There's something sticking out of the ground twenty feet away. Sam gets up without saying a word and walks towards it.

It's the damn spear. The edges are melted and the tip has been blunted by what looks like extreme heat. Sam reaches down and pulls it out of the ground. Samirah walks up with her ears pricked, eyes blazing. _What the hell do you want with that?_

"Might come in handy later on." She stares at him like he's lost his mind. Sam shrugs. "You really wanna leave it here, so they can find it and use it again?"

For once Samirah doesn't have an answer to that. They both turn back and look at Gaelen, and he's standing there with his arms crossed, this look on his face like, _Well?_

"Come on, kids." Gaelen drawls, almost lazily. His voice deepens, and Sam feels his heart tug in response. "Some time this year _would _be nice."

Sam shrugs out of his jacket and wraps the spear up as they walk back. "He's still not one hundred percent. So what do _I _do?"

_You?_ Samirah lays her ears flat. _You don't do anything. You don't fall off. You make sure Gaelen ---_

"Dean," Sam says flatly.

Samirah snorts. _You make sure Gaelen doesn't fall off._

She lifts her head, pricks her ears as she glares at Sam, and he glares right back at her. _You don't kick me in the sides, you don't pull on the reins. You don't do anything but hold on, understand me? I'll do the rest. _

Sam grins a little. "By the way. Thanks."

Samirah grumbles and shakes her head. _Must have been crazy to help you like that._

Gaelen mounts up first. He puts out his hand to Sam, and the slight smile on his face even reaches his eyes.

The whole thing feels so natural, so right, Sam moves without hesitation and swings up behind. He puts one arm around Gaelen's waist, holds onto the concealed spear with the other. He settles himself as Samirah moves forward, and it's the best Sam's felt in a whole damn while.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Okay, no evil cliffie this time. And this is a longer chapter too, Much thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, and lurked. Next post Tuesday.


	34. Chapter 34

_**A/N: **_It's Tuesday. Thank you, guys! We jump around a little bit with this chapter. Hope you enjoy it. Chale and Tiesen and Rika show up in the next chapter. The main part of this one revolves around the brothers, as Sam gets a glimpse of what's inside Gaelen's head. And yes, I did see _Troy_ and _300_. Also, while it is _not _dangerous to awaken a person while they are sleepwalking, it _can_ be dangerous to awaken a sleeping Horseman. Sam curses. He has good reason to. Hey, no worries, this fic _is_ rated T.

Also remember, this is an AU. In this one John _did not_ make the deal for Dean.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 34**_

It's not a threat, so none of them notice.

Gaelen doesn't. Neither does Sam or Samirah.

_I have another life,_ Gaelen thinks to himself. _I had parents who loved me._ He's aware of Samirah's smooth, floating movement beneath him, acutely aware of the man, his new brother, this _Sam_, sitting behind him. Gaelen tries not to smile too broadly. It's unseemly, for a Horseman.

Gaelen smiles anyway.

_Dean's in there, somewhere,_ Sam thinks to himself. _I can't lose him, I won't. Not after all this._ He has hope. Gaelen's voice changes sometimes, drops into Dean's whiskey smooth growl.

Sam smirks a little. He can't help it.

_That was stupid,_ Samirah thinks to herself. _Could have run off and left the big shaggy lump stranded. But did I? Oh, noooo. Gaelen does that earnest thing with his voice and those eyes and I couldn't say no. Damn. _

Samirah shakes her head from side to side, disgusted with herself.

There's nothing else for miles around, just the earth and the sky and the sun above. No angels (fallen, rebellious or otherwise) no demons, just the two brothers and the horse. They're headed away in the opposite direction, so none of the three notice that the ground, especially back there where Gaelen (or Dean) sat or lay, suddenly blooms with thick green grass and tall wildflowers with purple blossoms.

It's life where there wasn't any before, and it's such a _little_ thing, really.

* * *

Lillith's had better days, but this isn't one of them. She loses her form when she can't concentrate like this. All she can think about is Death, a raging, vengeful horseman on a huge black horse, broad shouldered with multi-colored eyes and a glowing right hand that means total oblivion, even for her.

"I don't want to die," Lillith mutters to herself. She's jammed herself into the far corner of her bedroom. Large handfuls of long blonde hair are scattered all over the floor. She's already removed the top layer of smooth, pink skin on half her face with her claws. "What's the sense of bringing on the Apocalypse if I can't be there to see it?"

The shapeshifter in attendance nods. It's a tall Hispanic man with hazel eyes. "Yes, Mistress. Alastair is on his way back up to talk to you. I'm sure he'll take care of everything."

There were a lot of advantages to being in servitude to Lillith; one such perk was that with a little added magic 'shifters didn't have to bother with shed skin and tissue and all that other gooey mess that regular 'shifters had to deal with.

The shifter forces itself not to roll its eyes as it collects Lillith's food tray. Hmm. Apparently three month old human flesh doesn't have the appeal it once did. Most of the carcass is uneaten. Maybe cook used too much hemlock this time. Oh well.

Lillith pouts as she sticks her index finger in her mouth and starts gnawing on her fingertip, and she doesn't really care that she's bitten off her finger to the first joint. Everything grows back. It always has, and it always will.

Of course, if Dean Winchester ever gets his hands on her, a missing finger will be the least of her worries.

"If you need anything else, Mistress, please let me know."

Lillith rolls her eyes and continues to gnaw and pick at her tattered flesh.

The servant bows before it turns its back on her. It keeps its mind perfectly blank, even as it walks down the hall with the tray. Who knew that big league demons could be so damn whiny?

* * *

The regular folks up in Heaven give him a wide berth, like rabbits hiding in the brush whenever a wolf comes around. John hears the whispers, sees the way their eyes widen whenever he's around. He scares the hell out of them. He knows it, uses it sometimes, just to amuse himself, and quite frankly, he doesn't give a damn. He tries to act friendly, and maybe he's just out of practice with the whole social thing.

John hears all about it when Anna, Uriel and Castiel come staggering back from the last time they meet up with Dean. John tries not to laugh, tries to act all shocked and totally disapproving of his eldest son's actions.

John's not sure he does a very good job. The thought of Sam and Dean together again after all this makes him smile.

Some of the big wigs come around and stare at him from a distance. He figures the one with the huge white wings and the golden armor's Michael. That short, squirrelly one over there is probably Gabriel. The dude with the long robe and the large brown ledger book?

Saint Peter.

He quirks an eyebrow at John and scribbles something down in that book of his. Oh well.

John never really paid much attention to angel lore before. Sonsofbitches have been asleep on the job all this time, and no other hunter ever said he or she saw one, so John decided it was a fairy tale, something that Pastor Jim Murphy would tell one of the young kids in his congregation.

Speaking of which, Jim's one of the few who _isn't _afraid of John. Pastor Jim takes one look at John and shakes his head. "And I thought they had standards up here," he says dryly.

Caleb tries not to laugh. After John bearhugs Pastor Jim, what the hell, Caleb's next.

When John lets go he sees Deanna and Samuel Campbell.

And Mary.

The sight of her takes John's breath away. She's radiant. John hugs her tightly and then swings her around joyously in his arms. Feels like he's come home, at long last.

Jim, Caleb and the Campbells stand there grinning like damn fools.

* * *

Samirah senses it first.

She turns her head slightly and glances back at Gaelen. He's still pale, has been since the time he woke up. Her eyes widen at the glazed look in his eyes. His grip on the reins is loose and relaxed, but she can see that his mind is somewhere else.

_Sam?_ Samirah rumbles.

"Huh? What?"

_You're not going to start screaming again, are you?_

"Screaming? Why would I ---" Sam stops short. He sees people up ahead. Thousands of them. They fade into view right in front of that hillside half a mile away. Sam sees bronze armor and shields and horse drawn chariots. _Damn._ Sam expects to see Brad Pitt or Gerard Butler at the head of the troops.

_It's Gaelen. _The black horse whickers softly._ I believe you humans would say he's sleepwalking. _

"Damn." Sam leans forward. He pulls Gaelen back against his chest, holds onto the spear of destiny with his free hand.

Gaelen doesn't say a word. He doesn't move, doesn't react.

"Gotta wake him up – "

_No. _Samirah says sharply._ Don't. You'll only make it worse. _

"Worse? How the hell could it get worse?"

As if in answer, Sam hears a peculiar twanging sound that fills the air. Arrows rise into the air from the hillside, so many the sky darkens overhead.

"Mother fucker!" Sam yelps. The arrows reach the top of the arc, hang suspended in mid-air overhead, somehow graceful.

Samirah lays her ears back. _It'll be all right. Don't scream, you hear me? Don't scream._

Truth to tell, Sam doesn't trust her. It's like Samirah is the sibling he never knew he had and never wanted anyway. It's always been Sam and Dean, or Dean and Sam, and yeah, Dad was there too, but the brothers were together. They had each other. Two's company, three's a crowd.

Sam _feels_ like screaming. He remembers he's dead, at least he was, last time he checked. Kinda hard to misinterpret something like that. Just the sight of that terrible wood and metal rainstorm hissing down on him makes his gut tighten up in response.

_Don't scream, huh? _

He still doesn't know why he _doesn't_. Scream, that is.

Sam holds onto Gaelen, holds onto _Dean, _and as the arrows curve earthward Sam looks up at them.

It's probably the dumbest thing he's ever done.

The arrows come down. They pass through Sam, Gaelen and Samirah harmlessly, and hit the ground all around them with a sharp snapping sound.

_Oh ye of little faith,_ the horse mutters crossly. She never misses a step, just continues to walk at a slow, steady pace. _I told you, I've seen this before._

She sounds amused.

Two separate forces of thousands of men, wearing clothing and using weapons that Sam's seen only on the History or Discovery channels, clash in the center of the field. The impact of bodies and shields smashing together makes the ground shake.

Samirah continues along casually, as though she's out for a country stroll. She walks though two men fighting each other with axes and swords. They wear blue body paint, and what looks like brown bear skins. They dissolve and flicker away as she moves through them.

Sam looks up at the hillside on his left. A fierce looking black man with long dreadlocks, dressed in red armor, sits astride a large red stallion, overlooking the scene.

"War," Sam whispers to himself.

_Tiesen. _Samirah nods. _I remember this place. _

Sam gapes at the armies who fade in and out all around them. He sees massive elephants trained to carry soldiers into battle, giant wolfhounds that attack foot soldiers. Sam smells blood. The field is crowded with the dead and dying.

Sam glimpses something just at the edge of his vision. He turns to look, and sees something tall, and oddly slender, wraith-like, as it hovers over the fallen in the field. There's more than one, there's thousands of them, and they lean down, reach out to the newly dead. Most of the dead smile and cross over peacefully.

Most of them.

"Reapers," Sam whispers.

"Tessa," Gaelen says breathily, and the scene changes.

* * *

It's a meadow this time, sunlit, clear skies, no bodies, just rolling green hillsides. What immediately gets Sam's attention is the sight of Gaelen walking down the slope towards the village below. Gaelen's hair is sun-bleached, shoulder length now, and he wears simple tan clothing and boots. Samirah ranges around them in a wide circle.

Gaelen looks happy. Contented, and the woman walking beside him is obviously the reason.

She's beautiful. Tall, slender, with shoulder length dark brown hair. The long white dress she wears is just as simple as the clothes Gaelen wears. She reminds Sam of that actress, Meg Tilly, when she was hot. Somehow Sam knows what she is. Maybe the fact that he's dead has something to do with that knowledge. She's a reaper, just like the ones in the field.

"Tessa," Gaelen says, and a chill runs up Sam's spine.

It's not Gaelen.

It's _Dean._

Gaelen's clothing shifts from black leather to faded blue jeans and battered brown leather. The change tickles Sam's skin. It's not unpleasant. Not exactly.

"Dude," Dean murmurs, and Sam can tell he's asleep. He sounds younger. Sam can tell that all Dean's internal censors have been switched off. All the tough guy swagger is gone.

"Tessa…saw her in the hospital, after…after the car crash. Thought about leaving…you and Dad…wanted to go with her….but I couldn't, y'know? She wouldn't let me leave."

"I'm glad she did that for you, Dean."

"I was tired," Dean mutters. "So damn tired, Sammy."

"It's okay, dude. I know."

Dean's head lolls to one side, and Sam pulls him a little closer. Dean's fully asleep again. It's a damn chick flick moment all right, and Sam will never tell.

One of the kids in the village, a young girl probably not older than seven or eight, runs up and pats Samirah on the nose. She takes the gesture with queenly patience, and doesn't even fuss as Gaelen lifts the child up and puts her on Samirah's broad black back. The horse moves slowly and carefully, and the child holds onto her thick mane and giggles with glee.

That's not what Sam expected at all, and there are other scenes after this. Gaelen and Samirah roam mountaintops and countrysides, somewhere in the world. Greece. Japan. Africa, and what looks like Egypt. They live as normal beings would. It's quiet and peaceful, no blood, no screaming. It's clear that Gaelen is searching for something, but Sam can't get over how relaxed and happy he looks.

"I - I never knew about this…"

_Overgrown pigeons._ Samirah laughs. _They only showed you the bloody bits, huh?_

"Well, yeah…"

Samirah tosses her head proudly. _There's more to us than that._

The scenes fade out, and there's only the three of them again, the wide open spaces and the blue sky above. It's a calm moment, marred only by the fact that Dean's dressed in black again. Doesn't matter. Not this time. Dean's not far away. Not at all. Sam can feel Dean's heartbeat underneath his fingertips, the warmth of his body and the sound of his breathing.

Samirah stands quietly, and Sam trusts her to decide when she wants to start moving again.

There aren't very many peaceful moments in the life of a Winchester, and Sam figures he'll take them whenever he can.

So he does.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ I wanted this to end on a peaceful note, because all hell is set to break loose.

Next post: Saturday.


	35. Chapter 35

_**A/N:**_ Here it is, as promised: the start of the Apocalypse. Also, the views and opinions of the Princes of Hell do not represent the views of this author. That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it. Disturbing imagery ahead.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit. So there.

* * *

_**Chapter 35**_

Lucifer smiles to himself as the others babble excitedly about their plans. It's not how he expected to start the End of All There Is, but he'll take whatever he can get. If you throw enough shit against a wall, some of it will stick.

It's business as usual.

* * *

BREAKING NEWS

From KCWE-TV (CW Affiliate):

At 9:43PM, Monday, 11/23/2009, the sky over downtown Kansas City, Kansas clouded up and the area is hit with a deluge of what appeared to be fresh, wet blood. Walnut sized chunks of flesh fell for a period of approximately twenty minutes. Meteorologists in the area refused to comment.

* * *

From News of the Weird:

12:51PM, 11/23/2009

A herd of two hundred mixed black and red Angus cattle spontaneously combusts on the Double R Ranch near Deer Lodge, Montana. The local sheriff's department has no comment except to say they are investigating the matter. Early reports indicate the lack of any accelerant found at the scene and according to witnesses the cattle stood placidly in one place while they burned alive.

* * *

From the Associated Press:

7:30AM, 11/24/2009

Dr. Franklin R Murray of the United States Antarctic Program finally admitted Wednesday that 1000 square miles of the Southern Ocean near McMurdo Station, Antarctica has caught fire. The blaze, which is still burning, is so intense it was seen from space by the crew of the space shuttle Atlantis. Dr. Murray does state that there was no indication that this is anything other than ignition of an oil slick on the ocean. When presented with evidence to the contrary, Dr. Murray refused to comment any further.

* * *

From WPCX-TV, Chicago, Illinois

11/24/09

The early morning peace and calm of the Navy Pier, located just east of Streeterville, is shattered at approximately 6:57 by the arrival of several unlikely visitors, namely twelve enormous boulders each the size of a Volksvagen Beetle. According to witnesses the rocks fell from a clear sky overhead and damage to the facility was extensive. The 150 foot tall Ferris wheel was destroyed by one of the projectiles. Seven maintenance workers on the scene are missing and still unaccounted for.

* * *

From NBC Nightly News:

4:32PM, 11/24/09

Tragedy struck along US Route 50, just outside of Stateline, Nevada when eleven drivers are found frozen to death inside their cars. The temperature that day is in the lower eighties. Authorities cannot explain why this occurred, and witnesses at the scene tell us that the air inside the car compartments was so frigid first responders actually sustained severe burns to their faces and hands (despite wearing gloves) as they attempted rescue.

The names of the dead are being withheld pending notification of their families.

* * *

"Boss?" The demon Teon bows, low and deep, as he cowers just inside the rack room. He's a treacherous, scaly little bastard, even by Hell's standards. Alastair has a knife stashed away in his tools with the little prick's name on it. "They're ready for you."

"All right," Alastair pats the forehead of the soul on the rack. She was a television evangelist who specialized in hoodwinking senior citizens into sending her their last dime. She thought no one could blame her, because after all, she didn't put a gun to their heads.

She thought wrong.

"I'll be back later," Alastair mutters softly as he bends down and kisses her bloody forehead. "Don't go anywhere, huh?"

The woman only grunts. Kind of hard to say anything with no tongue.

* * *

Lucifer's there. So is Mammon, Beezelbub, Leviathan, Asmodeus, Amon, and Belphegor. Glasya-Labolas looks like a golden retriever with the wings of an eagle. That harmless blonde puppy face has suckered many a poor fool to their doom. Ol' Glassie is commander of 36 legions of demons, a President of Hell, and master at inciting humans to pure bloody murder. He's a heavy hitter, and Alastair's glad to see him there.

The rest of the higher ranking demons sit on large bloody stones arranged around the main table.

Asmodeus sits at the opposite end of the table, idly using his claws to pick the skin off the damned soul sitting in his lap.

Astaroth stretches his dragon wings high over his head. He looks like a man this time, naked as a jay bird. Speaking of birds, Malphas is in his form as a large black crow. He hops around the table, picks at the tip of Ose's long tail.

Ose has taken the form of a large cheetah, and the animal looks bored.

Baal the bull and Purson sit there quietly talking among themselves. They always were slow to rush into anything. Alastair knows they'll be a hard sell. Purson is a man with a lion's face now, and no one even notices when he yawns wide and toothy and flies come boiling out.

Botis, another President of Hell, curls snakelike on the back of Barbas' chair.

Lucifer smiles at Alastair as the Grand Inquisitor takes his seat. "So glad you could join us today. We read your report on Lillith. If the bitch could start all this, why couldn't she finish it on her own?"

"She's weak now. Indecisive. She's lost a step." Alastair has no problem making Lillith seem as weak as he can make her. It's the truth, after all, and isn't _that _damned ironic?

"More than a few." Mammon brays out laughter. Several lesser demons nearby bleed from the sound. The faces of the damned souls embedded in the stone table scream silently, mouths stretched wide.

"These Horseman," Glasya-Labolas yips. "One of them was a hunter, correct?"

"Yes."

"A Winchester? Wasn't Azazel supposed to take care of the whole damn family?"

"He was." Alastair nods. He knows he's distanced himself enough from Azazel's failure. "The eldest son. He was a Death Horseman back in the day."

"I see. This Gaelen. Dean. He's a singular creature. Very unique. There has never been another like him, before, or since." Beelzebub's three sets of eyes blink all at once. "And your recommendation in this matter?"

"It's in my report."

Asmodeus turns the damned soul inside out and drops what remains onto the hot, rocky floor. The smell of cooked mangled flesh is hardly noticeable. He leans forward, his six elbows flat on the table. "We would like to hear it from you."

"Some of our weaker willed brothers and sisters do not agree with this course of action, but they are not here, and they will not oppose us. I recommend that we jumpstart the Apocalypse."

"What about Heaven?" Amon rumbles.

Alastair's smile is bright and cold. "Some factions up in Heaven would welcome this."

"There_ is_ a matter of tradition." Baal rolls his eyes. He tilts his thick horns in the air. "If the Horsemen refuse to ride…"

"Dean Winchester has a personal vendetta against Lillith. The other Horsemen will follow his lead. If we can position Lillith in the right way, at the right place, and Winchester kills her, the violent release of her essence should be sufficient to free Abaddon."

The others nod and murmur in approval. Abaddon the Destroyer, the angel of the bottomless pit.

"Whatever else you need, Alastair," Lucifer murmurs. "Ask and ye shall recieve."

"Thank you, my Lord. The timetable is set. In one week's time, in Las Vegas, Nevada." Alastair bows his head slightly. "If I may beg a favor?"

"Go ahead."

"If possible, I would like to procure Dean Winchester and the other Horsemen for my rack. There is a possibility that their abilities could be twisted to serve us even better. At the very least," Alastair smiles, "he and the other Horsemen would pose no further threat to us."

"Of course," Lucifer nods gravely. "We will continue with all the proper signs and potents leading up to that time."

The others purr, shriek, and gobble their approval into the hot, red air.

"I do love a good show," Leviathan murmurs fondly.

* * *

Gaelen stares at himself in the mirror. It's something he's never really done before. He leans in, and his fingers shake (just a little) as he peers at the fine thin scars around his right eye.

Huh.

Looks like his face. Same lips, same wide green eyes. Hair's shorter than he ever wore it before. A little darker too. Same broad shoulders, same spray of freckles dusting his chest and back. It's an odd thing. Dean was _out_, and Gaelen was _in_, deep inside, and Gaelen's not too sure how he feels now that the tables are turned. He can hear Dean, _feel _him, buried deep, like whispers in a room far away. The Spear must have effectively rearranged them both, inside out.

Chale doesn't say very much. Neither do Tiesen and Rika.

Gaelen continues his inspection. He's bare-chested and barefoot now, dressed only in those slim black pants of his. His cassock and greatcoat are neatly folded over one of the chairs nearby. That long thin scar down the front of his chest is barely visible, and in another day it'll be gone entirely.

Tiesen scowls as he leans against the wall. He looks like he wants to punch a hole right through it, but holding it up with one of his broad shoulders will do for right now.

Rika fidgets in the chair over by the window. She looks out at the courtyard, sees Ellen and Bobby, the dog and that Sam Winchester. _This day is full of surprises,_ she thinks to herself. Started when she and Actaeon rode up to Samirah out there on the plain, and it's been nonstop ever since.

Rika glances over at Gaelen. "So. Sam's your brother, huh?"

Gaelen smiles shyly. "Yeah."

"Kid always did have a soft spot for strays," Tiesen mutters.

Rika laughs, just in time to see Sam lean down and give Rumsfeld2 a really good chest rub. The big Rottie grins his appreciation as Bobby and Ellen look on.

"Means he's our brother too, then." Rika looks away from the window.

"Yeah. About that." Tiesen frowns. "You told them about_ him_ yet?"

Gaelen shakes his head. "No. Not...not yet."

"This crap is making my head hurt," Chale mutters to himself.

Tiesen and Rika look startled.

Chale shrugs those massive shoulders of his. "Healing bodies is easy. It's when you start messing with somebody's mind, well, that's when things get messy. Spear of Destiny? Angels on the rampage? Now I'm wishing for the good old days."

"We all knew where we stood back then." Tiesen straightens up. "What about Dean?"

Gaelen turns away from the mirror to look at him.

"You're not gone, so he can't be. Can you feel him?"

Gaelen blinks at his reflection. "I don't…I don't know what I feel. I can feel him. He's weak. Sleeping."

"Was that the way you felt?" Chale says quietly. "Before you woke up, and he started remembering?"

Gaelen nods.

_Damn,_ Rika thinks. She liked Dean. There was something playful and flirty about him. She likes Gaelen, too. He's more reserved, almost bashful at times.

Gaelen wiggles the fingers of his pale golden right hand. If he closed his eyes he couldn't tell the difference between it and his left hand. The lightshow ends right at his wrist. He'd have a stump if it wasn't for that. "What about this?"

"Beats the hell outta me," Chale mutters, and Tiesen snorts. "That special Colt blew up in Dean's hand months ago. I'm guessing it's something he wants to hold on to."

Tiesen rolls his eyes.

"Hey, what d'ya want from me?" Chale growls. "I'm making this up as I go along."

"Fair enough," Tiesen says darkly, and all three know that look. Tiesen wants to kill something. As a matter of fact, they all do.

There's a season for everything, and all four of them know that.

* * *

Unusual weather phenomena is sighted in the early morning sky over Vancouver, Canada. According to eyewitness reports the sky boiled with clouds and turned fiery copper: "It looked like the end of the world."

* * *

A giant sinkhole swallows up half of the town of Frances, Texas. Forty five are confirmed dead, seventy two are still missing.

* * *

Zoo animals at the St. Louis Zoological Park in St. Louis Missouri literally rot down to the bone before the eyes of horrified visitors. Affected areas included Big Cat Country, the Primate House, and the Wild exhibit. The Zoo is shut down pending further investigation by the CDC.

* * *

I also found lyrics from _cattle and the creeping things_ by the Hold Steady that suit the occasion:

_they got to the part with the cattle and the creeping things.  
they said i'm pretty sure we've heard this one before.  
don't it all end up in some revelation?  
with 4 guys on horses, and violent red visions  
famine and death and pestilence and war.  
i'm pretty sure i heard this one before._

_**A/N:**_ Also, I must give credit where credit is certainly due, and that means YOU, SciFiNutTx. Remember that quote you sent me in your email? "War, Death, Pestilence, Famine, and Bitchface"? Yes, Virginia, there is a Bitchface of the Apocalypse. Two guesses as to who it is.

Next chapter will be posted on Tuesday. See ya!


	36. Chapter 36

_**A/N: **_Okay, I'm a day late with this, and I didn't want to delay until _after_ the holiday. I wanna thank everyone for reviewing and fav'ing this fic! My muse informs me that posing this today by itself will not affect the rest of the story. There is much more carnage and weirdness ahead.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 36**_

_**Then:**_

Tiesen shakes his head as they carry Dean into the house. The look he gives Bobby says _I'm sorry._

His home is_ gone_. Bobby knows this.

Even so Bobby's right hand curls up into a fist. It would be a piss poor way to thank Tiesen for saving him and Ellen by taking a swing at him, but there it is. The last thing Bobby remembers is blood red clouds, the taste of salt water in the air, so heavy and thick it took his breath away, and now he's alive and awake here, where ever here is, with Ellen and that damn fool dog of his.

He wishes he could be happy about that, but a part of him wishes he'd died when his home did.

"I'll be damned," Ellen whispers roughly.

_Now what?_ Bobby turns to look. He stares, and he forgets how to breathe for a moment. He forgets to blink.

Hell. It _can't_ be.

"Sam? Sam, is that you?"

"Yeah. It's me." Sam can't stop grinning. Rumsfeld2's the only one who's not frozen in amazement. The dog goes right over to Sam, bumps that big head of his, hard and insistent, against Sam's leg: _Pet me, damn it!_

Ellen moves first. She envelops Sam in a hug that's so tight Sam's eyes bug out. Something's not quite right, but Sam can't but his finger on it. He can feel Ellen's heartbeat, but there's another one too, and he can't understand it.

He doesn't want to, not at first.

Bobby's eyes narrow. "Where's John, Sam?"

"He crossed over."

"You mean he ditched you."

"No, it's okay. I think it is. Red Dog Inn. I can explain."

Ellen stiffens up. She pulls away from him, just a little. The look on her face can best be described as deer in the headlights, and now Sam's pretty sure he's got the same damn look. The penny drops then, big and round and so heavy Sam locks his knees to keep from falling over.

He'd been so preoccupied, making sure that Gaelen -- that_ Dean_ -- was okay. Now that he can focus on himself, Sam listens to his body now,_ really_ listens to himself as his lungs pull in air just as easily as they did before Devil's Gate.

"Honey," Ellen murmurs, wide eyed and shocked as hell. "I can feel your heart beat."

Frozen in place, all Sam can do is nod.

* * *

**Now:**

Gaelen slips on that black cassock of his without saying another word. He gets like this sometimes. Moody, humans would call it.

His mind takes him to places he'd rather not go. He hears the whispered conversations his family had about him…

"_The boy's unnatural, you can see that in his eyes, can't you?"_

…hears the sharp metallic scrape of metal against metal out in the barn as his own father sharpened his ax with the intent to murder his own son.

Gaelen thought about walking into the barn just then. It would have been so easy to give up, to surrender, easy enough to quietly kneel down in front of his father. Easy to bow his head, close his eyes and wait for the downward stroke of the ax.

Gaelen leaves the room in the blink of an eye.

"Here we go," Tiesen mutters to himself. They've seen this mood of Gaelen's before. They could easily go after him, of course, but they don't. Instead the other three Horsemen stand at the window and stare down at the courtyard below. Gaelen appears right next to Samirah. She whickers softly as she thrusts her huge black head into his willing hands.

The expression on Sam Winchester's face is so fierce and brooding that the other three horses prick their ears up and move in for a closer look. It's quite a show. Sam waves his arms in the air as he tries to put his point across.

Samirah ignores him. So does Gaelen. He stands there quietly for a moment, with his forehead pressed against hers. They're alone in the world, with no one else around.

Gaelen swings up onto Samirah's back. She doesn't tack up. He twines his fingers around a handful of her long mane as she swings around towards the gate.

They fade from view after a few steps, and Sam's left behind, fuming.

* * *

If anything, Sam's expression, that _bitchface_, gets even more intense by the time Chale, Rika and Tiesen step out onto the porch moments later.

"I don't know what's going on here," Sam grits out. "I don't know how I got like this."

"Beats the hell out of me," Chale sits down on the stone steps right next to Ellen. It's not what Sam wants to hear, but it's the only thing any of them can say. "Closest thing I can think of is, you're like us."

"What?"

"You're not a spirit anymore. I can tell you that much."

"Did Dean do this?"

"I don't know. You can ask him when he comes back."

"Whatever's gonna happen, I need to be a part of it. Dean's my brother. So is Gaelen."

"That a fact?" Tiesen's smiles, wicked sharp.

Sam nods. "This is my fight too."

Tiesen looks Sam up and down. "Think it's time we see how you handle yourself."

"It's what?" Sam blinks, and his bitchface falters, just a little. "You're talking about sparring."

Chale's grin gets a little wider. "You can call it that."

Sam considers his chances, and they don't seem to be _that_ bad. Chale's wider than Sam, but not as tall. Tiesen's taller, and solidly built. Could be an even match, especially with his training, provided they don't go all out Horseman on him.

"Oh. Okay." Sam expects Chale or Tiesen to step forward. Neither one moves.

Rika does.

"It's okay," she smiles as she looks up at him. "I'll take it easy on you."

She's about sixteen, maybe seventeen. "You gotta be kidding me, right?" Sam shakes his head and he grins a little as he looks down at her. "I don't …I don't spar with little girls."

Tiesen rolls his eyes.

Chale snorts.

"Good grief," Bobby mutters. He takes a seat on the steps, right next to Ellen. Might as well enjoy the show.

"Uh, Sam?" Ellen says, and she knows it's already too late. Boy's about to learn a painful lesson. Chale winks at Ellen, and she leans against him. "This oughta be good," he rumbles.

Rika grows taller. The white armor she wears stretches to fit her lean, muscular frame.

Sam's eyes widen in shock. She's eye to eye with him now, and what Sam sees in her eyes is huge and powerful and eternal.

And very _very _amused.

_I'll take it easy on you. _

Actaeon, Ismael and Ajani whiny loudly at the look of utter shock on Sam's face.

_Crap. Crap!_ Sam's bitchface falls apart. He's screwed, and he knows it.

He's screwed, and Dean's not around.

Something hard slams into the back of his legs. Sam finds himself airborne, staring up at the bright blue sky above. That doesn't last long. He slams into the ground so hard all the wind in his lungs is knocked out of him.

"Uh, g-guys?" Sam stammers. He can't think of anything else to say. He's not going to beg, that's for sure. But maybe he could talk his way out of this? Yeah, right…

"You're in luck," Rika says with a grin as she leans over him. "I'm not a little girl."

* * *

_If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times. You think too much, Gaelen._ Samirah bows her head as she splashes through the waves on the beach. Getting wet is the least of Gaelen's worries now.

_You sonofabitch,_ Dean whispers fiercely.

Gaelen laughs, and he really doesn't know whether he's responding to Samirah or Dean. Maybe both. "Maybe I don't think enough," he says out loud. "You know why we reacted to Sam the way we did."

The black horse nods her head. _Demon taint._ She paws at the surf with her left foreleg, ears pricked, enjoying the way the water froths and foams around her ankles. _It's over. It's done. _

"Not yet. I have to talk to Dean."

_You wanted to hurt my brother, you bastard._

Samirah pins her ears back at the commotion inside Gaelen's head. Dean's awake. And he's not happy.

Gaelen's hands shake as he dismounts. He stumbles against the horse as his eyes glaze over with a horrible blankness. Samirah leans into him hard to keep him upright. She slowly, carefully lowers herself to the white sandy beach. Gaelen's sprawled halfway across her wide, broad back.

Samirah huffs as she settles down on her belly. _Dean thinks too much, too.

* * *

_

Dean's fist slams into the side of Gaelen's jaw. It's his left hand, not his right, but Gaelen's head still feels like it's about to fall right off. Everything goes white for the barest second, and when Gaelen comes out of the fog Dean's standing over him, both hands balled into fists. He's battered brown leather and worn blue jeans, all scars and pale golden hand to Gaelen's sleek black cloth and leather. They're not quite mirror images, but two sides of the same coin.

"You knew Sam has demon blood inside him, and you wanted to kill him. That's why you came out, isn't it? _Isn't it_?" Dean roars.

"Yes," Gaelen says simply. No need to lie about this. No excuse for it, either. He couldn't put what he was feeling into words. It was confusing, looking at Sam Winchester, knowing the boy was tainted with Azazel's blood.

Sam Winchester, one of Azazel's special children. There was a time when that would have been an automatic death sentence, and Gaelen would have been only too happy to do the honors himself.

Gaelen wipes at his chin, stares at the blood on his fingers. "You knew about the yellow eyed demon. You knew I fought and hunted him all those years."

Dean leans in, fists the front of Gaelen's greatcoat with his left hand. Gaelen watches the sleek golden muscles in Dean's right hand tighten, and he stills himself.

_What will be, will be._ Maybe Samuel Colt found a way to kill everything after all, including Death.

"Doesn't matter what happens to me. Or to us." Gaelen nods at the barely contained fury in Dean's voice. It seems natural it would come to this. Gaelen would die for his family. Dean would die to keep Sam safe.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

Dean releases his hold on Gaelen's greatcoat, which isn't necessarily a good thing. Gaelen sits back so he doesn't faceplant into the ground.

"Sam stays innocent, you hear me? You don't know a damn thing about that."

"I know what it's like to grow up alone. Sam was lucky to have you."

The look Dean gives Gaelen is intense, searching. "I need to hear your intentions."

"My what?"

"Yeah. You heard me. About Sam," Dean says quietly.

"Sam wants to ride. He's family now. I'm not going to stop him."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't want him to ride."

"He's an adult. He's not a child anymore."

"Why didn't you try to kill him?"

"He's not evil," Gaelen says simply, and Dean lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding in. "He could have used the spear on me. He didn't. He helped me instead."

Dean's shoulders sag, and all the tension seems to run out of him. "All my life I tried to keep him innocent," he says softly.

"I know," Gaelen nods. "You're scared, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You are so damn full of it."

"Maybe. You're scared that Sam will go dark. He won't. He's got us._ All_ of us." Gaelen stretches out on the ground. It feels soft against his back, like a pillow. Not bad. "Is this one of those chick flick moments you're always running from?"

Dean rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He looks uneasy. "Uh, no."

"Are we done here? Because this is giving me a damn headache."

Dean nods. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards in a grin. "We're done."

"Good." Gaelen closes his eyes. He pretends not to notice when Dean finally leaves.

* * *

Kasey Jordan always did like the beach. She could sit there in the shade for hours. It was a place to get away from it all, at least for a while.

A rider on a huge black horse comes into view. Kasey waves, and the man waves back. People sometimes ride their horses on the beach, and that's nothing new or special, but the sight of these two takes her breath away.

He's green eyed, drop dead gorgeous, broad shouldered and barefoot, dressed in faded blue jeans and a black tee shirt. He rides bareback, sits free and easy. The horse is the most striking Arabian she's ever seen. It's probably the largest, and that sleek black hide flashes with spears of sunlight as it moves effortlessly over the sand.

Kasey blinks. Horse and rider disappear into thin air.

Well, it's nothing. Sun got into her eyes. She looks up and down the beach. There's no sign of them. just a line of hoofprints in the sand.

People don't really vanish like that, do they?

Nahh.

Kasey turns back to the live feed from CNN on her laptop.

"…authorities have no explanation for the odd occurrence, which is the third time in as many days that frogs, worms and snakes have been reported to fall from the sky onto the Golden Gate Bridge. In other news, law enforcement officials in Richmond, Virginia made no comment on eyewitness reports that the White House of the Confederacy in downtown Richmond was pulled underneath the ground by what can only be described as long blood red tentacles. Police Chief Matthew Greyson discounted those reports in a news conference…"

Breaking news scrolling at the bottom of the screen indicates a blizzard in Miami, Florida, cattle mutilations in Texas, reports of winged men buzzing highway traffic in Kennebunkport, Maine.

Strange days.

* * *

Hope everyone has a happy and safe Thanksgiving! Next chapter will be posted next week.


	37. Chapter 37

_**A/N:**_ Time in the Black Horse 'verse passes more slowly than it does in our reality. This is a continuation of the same day in the last chapter. Looks shifty-eyed. Yeah, riiight....

_**BTW:**_ Sleipnir is Odin's six-legged stallion. "Just follow the screams" was first said by Jeff Goldblum in _Jurassic Park: The Lost World._

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment and not for profit.

* * *

_Not bad,_ Sam thinks to himself. _I'm holding my own._

Well, Rika dusted the ground with him, but he went easy on her because Sam Winchester does _not_ hit girls.

That's his story and he's stickin' to it.

Everyone in the courtyard's sitting (or in the case of the horses) standing around watching the show. Rika's back to being a little girl again. She sits on the stone steps next to Ellen and Bobby, all prim and proper, her eternal self neatly tucked behind that fresh faced little blonde girl façade.

Ajani nods his sleek, red head up and down briskly. _Anyone want to bet on how long shaggy boy's gonna last?_

Actaeon, Rika's white horse, snorts as she shakes her head from side to side. Her forelock falls down over her eyes, and she gives her head a one more shake. Better. _Nope._

The big dappled grey horse rolls his eyes. _You lost the last bet we had, anyway._ Ishmael says. _You should have known Sleipnir couldn't outrun Samirah._

_Hmph_, Ajani grouses. _There was no harm done. I bet on her too. _

Chale circles Sam, his broad face screwed up in a look of intense concentration. He's not as tall as Sam, but he's broader, way more muscular. They circle each other, and then they close, stand toe to toe for a moment, trading punches that make Sam's teeth and spine rattle. They block and slash at each other, and then step away and circle each other again.

Sam rolls his shoulders. He feels better about his chances now. Rikia was one thing, but Chale?

_Huh. These folks are supposed to be invincible? _Sam snorts to himself._ They're over-rated. _He winks at Ellen, and she shakes her head at him. _Don't get cocky, boy._

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Sam backpedals, just as Chale throws a punch at him. Sam steps in, plants his elbow right in the Horseman's face. Chale's knees buckle, and his head rocks back.

Ellen flinches.

Sam smirks even wider, and he goes in for the knockdown. Chale grins, wide and cheerful, puts a hand up, catches Sam's fist easily in his palm. Sam's eyes go wide as he realizes that he's well and truly screwed.

Chale winks at him. Rika giggles.

Sam's jerked forward, off balance, as Chale sweeps his legs out from underneath him.

"Idjit," Bobby mutters.

Sam face plants into the ground.

Ajani huffs. _Told ya._

Ishmael whickers. _Well, duh._

Actaeon whinnies loud and long.

Sam sputters, spits out a mouthful. The courtyard dust is gritty and sandy, and he should be used to it by now.

Chale turns toward Tiesen and grins. "Boy's got some moves, I'll give him that. Your turn, brother."

Tiesen's smile is broad and cheerful, promising pain and all kinds of other things Sam would soon as well avoid. He cracks his knuckles as he steps forward. "Rise and shine, kidling. Let me show these two how it's done."

Sam lifts his head, puffs out a breath that ruffles his bangs and stirs dust up around his nose and mouth.

_Crap._

_

* * *

__I know this place, _Dean thinks to himself_. _

The people all around him quietly clear a path for him with each slow, measured stride he takes forward. His greatcoat and cassock are blacker than the night sky above, blacker than the pitch dark possessing the crowd. They turn their black eyes away from the copper brightness of his eyes and his right hand. Straight ahead, past the metal railing, a fine thin spray of water fills the air, and beyond that water cascades effortlessly over brown rocks. A pillar of brilliant yellow and orange fire surges upwards, towards the sky.

The water's on fire.

Even the trapped souls inside the bodies quiet themselves when they see Dean. He's Other, no doubt about it. Even a blind person could sense it, from the too fluid way he moves, and the unnatural perfection of his face and form. The thin scars around his right eye pick up the golden glint of his right hand.

The ground underneath his feet trembles as he reaches the railing. He can feel the tremors through the soles of his boots. It's powerful, angry. It's been caged for far too long.

The last of the possessed ones step out of Dean's path, and he sees her.

Lillith is tall and slender this time, her blonde hair cut chin length. That silky red dress of hers hugs every curve; it dips very low in the back, stops just above the base of her spine.

"Hello, freak," Dean rumbles.

She doesn't move, doesn't react. Lillith leans against the railing, keeps her back to him, even though he _knows_ she senses his presence.

Nothing about this entire scene is right. She should be running and screaming, but she's not. After what she did to him he should be kicking her scaly blue ass.

Dean puts his elbows on the railing as he looks around. The street behind him is quiet; no car sounds, no horns, not even the slight clicking of traffic lights as they switch from red to yellow, then green and back again. The entire city holds its breath. The possessed ones stand silently at his back. He glances at the palm trees, at the lighted buildings all around. A huge wooden boat floats serenely in the water yards away. It's ornate to the point of being gaudy; Dean half expects Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow to come striding out onto the deck.

_Vegas. The bitch is in Las Vegas…_

Dean gets it then. It's not a dream. It's a message. A vision.

The ground underneath his feet rumbles, stronger this time. Dean looks down at the lake surrounding the volcano. The water gurgles, rises up, bumps the underside of the dock. Another rumble, and Dean cocks his head to one side. He can almost make out the words this time.

_Free…_

The dark, frothy surface of the water boils up towards him. Large black eyes open up in the water, and the mouth underneath the eyes stretches open in a cavernous smile, tons of water swirling around .

_Free me,_ the face rumbles, and Dean jerks back with a start as something soft touches his right ear, sends a shiver that climbs down his spine.

* * *

_Wakey wakey._

"Rhonda," Dean mutters. "Quit it."

_Who's Rhonda?_ He can hear the smile in her voice. The touch comes again, and he shudders with pleasure again.

"Rhonda Hurley." Dean sighs. Despite himself, he leans into the touch. "I really liked wearing her pink silk --- hey, wait a minute!"

Dean blinks. He's suddenly aware of the sun overhead, the large warm, body at his back.

_Really? Pink silk what?_

"I don't…Samirah?" Dean shudders again as Samirah lips at his earlobe with those incredibly flexible, velvet soft lips of hers.

He's a little confused at the moment, and then he realizes he's down. Sitting down with his back against the big black horse. She's sitting on the ground right behind him, her forelegs neatly folded. Samirah nudges the side of his face with her nose. _Pink silk what?_

"Uh, you don't need to know that," Dean says sheepishly.

The horse pricks her ears up. _Pink silk. That was a scarf, right? You wore her scarf into battle?_

"Uh…yeah. Right."

Samirah arches her neck and bats those long eyelashes at him. _You're lying_, she says smugly._ I can always tell._

"How long have I been out?"

_Ten minutes. You weren't feeling well._

"I wasn't?"

_Nope. You started shaking in the saddle, so I stopped. You got off and sat right down. So what was that all about?_

Dean huffs. "I think somebody just tapped me on the shoulder."

_Who?_

"Beats the hell outta me." Dean grins a little. "I know where Lillith will be. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."

_I've never been to this Vegas._

"You'll like it. You'll see."

A dragonfly zips through the air right next to Dean's right ear. He looks around, wide-eyed, as Samirah nails Bug Boy with a lazy twitch of her tail. It suddenly dawns on him exactly where they are now. It's the same passageway that Sam, Dean and Samirah cut through before, the same place that Uriel hit Dean with the Spear of Destiny.

It was desert before. Most of the place is a jungle now.

Dean runs his fingers through the impossibly thick grass all around him. The trees nearby are young, not more than ten years old as far as growth goes. Tall grass sways gently in the breeze, clumps of wildflowers dot the landscape. Some of the blooms are purple, some are bright yellow.

The mountains in the distance are reddish brown, dusty, but this oasis is green and lush and teaming with life. A small, bright green lizard scurries after what looks like a grasshopper. Small brown birds flit busily through the air, with long strands of grass in their beaks. They're building a nest in that tree over there, and they chirp happily to themselves as they go about their business.

Three larger, darker birds wheel around high up in the sky overhead. Dean stares up at them, and he narrows his eyes as he realizes what they are.

Not birds. _Angels._

One of them has dark curly hair and intense blue eyes.

Startled blue eyes lock onto steely green eyes.

_Castiel,_ Dean growls under his breath. He doesn't recognize the other two. One is a small, petite black woman with close cropped brown hair. The other one is tall and blond, another male.

"Yeah, bitch," Dean mutters. "You better run."

Castiel and the other two blur into dark streaks on the far horizon.

_There's my plucked chicken,_ Samirah purrs. _Maybe he's looking for his raincoat._

Dean lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding in as he looks around. "I did this."

Samirah nods solemnly. _Yes, you did._

Dean lifts his hands, stares at them, the normal, flesh and blood left and the firefly right. He flexes his fingers, and the golden glow of his right hand shimmers.

"Those dead horses…" Dean breathes. At least, he tries to. The air is too heavy for him to pull into his lungs. This is big. Too damn big. "That wasn't the angels. That was…that was _me_…"

_Uh huh._

He remembers hugging Sam, and he had to be careful not to show his sorrow when they pulled away from each other. Sam didn't have a heartbeat. No breathsounds. Nothing.

Sam was a spirit.

_I have a brother,_ Gaelen whispers happily in Dean's memory.

Sam.

Sam was dead and now he's alive again…

Dean gulps in air, and it's no good. He spreads his knees, rests his hands on top of them as he leans forward. _Can't catch my breath,_ he thinks muzzily, _I can't…_

_Not again. Eugene's not even here._

"His name's Bobby," Dean gasps.

_Whatever_. Samirah shakes her head as she gets to her feet in one smooth motion. _I still say you humans have way too many names. _

She pushes her smooth nose into the space between Dean's shoulder blades, makes him lean forward. _Head down. Breathe. Breathe. You're doing it again._

"Doing…doing what?"

_Thinking too much._

"How the hell can you be so damn calm about this?"

Samirah looks puzzled, as though she doesn't quite understand the question. _Someone has to be._

"You ever heard of anything like this before?"

_No. But why not?_

Dean frowns at her.

Samirah's voice is calm, as though she's explaining something complicated to a foal. _Rika is Famine and Abundance. Tiesen wields War, and Peace. Chale is Pestilence and Healing. You? Death and Life. Never happened before. _She rests her chin on Dean's left shoulder and tilts her head towards him, ears pricked. _Doesn't mean it could never happen. You found what you were looking for. It was inside you all along._

It would be a mistake to think that Samirah is limited in her intelligence. She's not. She accepts this in the same way she accepted Dean being changed by the Colt. It's not pretense, and she's not being coy or flip. She accepts it _all_, and that's _that_.

The only thing she ever had trouble accepting was Dean leaving her.

They stare at each other for a long moment. Dean sees himself reflected in her large reddish gold eyes. _Damn, I'm an idiot,_ he thinks to himself.

He's up on his feet in another second, swinging into the saddle right after that, but not before he rubs that space between Samirah's eyes and kisses her on the nose.

Samirah squawks, surprised and pleased. She shivers all over, in a good way, and Dean pretends not to notice.

* * *

The stone bench near the fountain is one of their favorite spots. Mary rests her head on John's shoulder as she snuggles into his side.

_More things change, the more they stay the same, _John thinks. He's had that prickly feeling all the time now, the hair at the back of his neck rising up in warning. His hackles are raised up here, just like they were down below, whenever he'd go into some small town on a job. Small towns had secrets, usually bad ones. John sees the way the angels look at him, Mary, Jim Murphy, Caleb and the Campbells. According to Pastor Jim, it's gotten worse lately. Started about a year ago.

Mary senses it. They all do. There's no news about Sam. Not even Pastor Jim could find out exactly where the boy had gotten to. Ask one of the feathered fucks and they smile politely (and that smile doesn't reach their eyes, _oh no_) and lie. "We'll get back with you."

Sure they will.

And to top it off, mention the name _Dean Winchester_ and it's like saying the name of the Devil himself.

"Friend of yours?" Mary says softly. John grunts, roused from his memories. He immediately feels vaguely guilty about that. They've been separated for so damn long, now he doesn't want to waste another second. "Who?"

"Her. Is she someone you met on a hunt?" Mary nods towards the young woman standing nervously several feet away.

John looks. "I don't think so."

She's tall, slender, with shoulder length dark hair, dressed in blue jeans, a red top, and a short black leather jacket. She doesn't have wings and John realizes that she looks like that actress, the one Dean had a crush on a while back. John struggles to recall the name as she walks towards them, a slight smile on her face.

Meg Tilly. Yep, that was the woman's name.

"Hi." Her smile widens a little. Mary straightens up, and it's no accident that she scoots a little closer to John, while she holds on his arm. The young woman nods slightly. She gets the message: _He's mine, girl. Always has been, always will be. _

_Crap,_ John thinks to himself. He does have the feeling he's seen her before, but he can't figure out where. She's a real looker, no denying that. Maybe she was an ER nurse somewhere?

"Mr. and Mrs. Winchester?" Mary relaxes her grip, just slightly. _Thank God_, John thinks.

"Ah, my name is Tessa. I'm a friend of your son, Dean."

She doesn't stand close enough to shake hands, and John wonders why at first.

"I've known him for a long time. I never had the pleasure of meeting your other son, Sam, but I think you should know that he's okay. They both are."

John sounds calm, but he's anything but. "Where's Sam?"

The brunette shrugs. "_They_ don't know," she says, and with that slight emphasis John and Mary get it. There are probably ears all around. "He's safe. He's with Dean."

Mary nods.

"I just want you to know that if you need anything, anything at all, please let me know."

"Where did you two meet?" Mary says quietly.

"Ah, in the hospital." Tessa locks eyes with John. "After the crash."

John's eyes widen, and Tessa smiles. She nods as she turns away, and the fact that she fades out from view after a few feet doesn't bother Mary. This is _Heaven_, after all.

Mary leans against John again, and smiles a little. "She seems nice."

John looks dazed. "Dean almost died after the crash."

"You told me that."

"He kept saying that he couldn't remember everything, but there was a dark haired woman dressed in white. She asked him if he wanted to stay or go."

Mary shrugs. "Angel."

"No. I don't think so." John's eyes narrow as he stares at the last place Tessa stood. "Reaper."

* * *

_Just follow the screams,_ Dean thinks, so he and Samirah do.

Cars are scattered all around the road in a rough circle, and the critter standing in the middle of the mess is about twelve feet tall, man shaped, obscenely muscular. Its bald head and face is the most human thing about it. The rest is a nightmare, and Dean knows if it hurts his eyes to look at it, then a normal human would be struck dumb by it. Four arms and two legs, and that's not even the worst of it. Its dark yellow skin is mapped with thick ropy veins, and the look in those black eyes is murderously gleeful. It looks around and smiles. "All flesh. All mine." It sounds happy. "You stay here. Mine now."

That voice doesn't sound right. Samirah pins her ears back against her head, and Dean feels his eardrums throb at the sound. Nobody makes a break for it, no one tries to drive away, and they both know why.

It's mesmerizing the people with its voice. They don't run. They can't.

"So much meat," it croons to them. "Stay there. Stay ---"

The thing steps towards this station wagon just as Samirah stops short of the ring of cars. She could run right over them if she wanted, but Dean doesn't want her to. It's too close quarters in there.

_I got this,_ he tells her silently and he's out of the saddle in a heartbeat. He lands on the hood of the cars and takes off running.

The fugly's head jerks around. The rear door to the station wagon is ripped off in one quick jerk. The family inside (Mom, Dad, and three young kids inside) scream and backpedal into their seats. There's no other place for them to go.

"Hey!"

Dean stands a few feet away, in the truck bed of a big silver pick-up. The demon looks him up and down and licks its long grey tongue out over jagged teeth. Slime drips onto the pavement from the corners of its mouth and concrete sizzles where ever the droplets land.

"Hero," the thing mutters to itself. "Hero flesh."

"Damn, will you shut the hell _up_!" Dean yells. Every word makes his head throb. Big Ugly jumps up on the hood of the truck in a heartbeat, then it's standing in the truck bed with Dean less than a second later. It's dumb enough, or confident enough to lean down to take a closer look at him. When Dean puts his right hand around its throat the thing actually laughs.

"Pretty meat…pretty lights…"

The scars around Dean's right eye flare up, as does his right hand, and the critter's skin immediately goes slick and transparent, lit up from the inside out with pale golden light.

The demon's mouth gapes open, and the breath that comes out is unbelievably foul: sulfur, dried blood and rotten meat. It screams at him, and Dean flinches as the sound tears at his skin. His black cassock tears, the hem of his black greatcoat rips into long tatters, snapping in the foul wind blasting from the thing's mouth.

The leather and fabric covering his right arm dissolves into the air, and so does the flesh of Dean's arm. There's a flash of white arm bone, from his wrist to his shoulder, exposed to the air. glowing softly, and the copper and gold energy inside Dean's body curls up into the air as he leans into the thing, bearing down on it with everything he has. Dean pours the Colt's power into the thing (_Come on, you sonofabitch, come on and die already_)_, _pours Death into it as his eyes blaze copper bright.

Moments later the demon staggers backwards, blinking at Dean in blank amazement. Its lips move for the final time: "Not supposed to die. Not me. You."

The demon's body dissipates into thin dead wisps of grey and white smoke.

"Yeah, I get that a lot lately," Dean mutters as he steps back. His skin deals in seconds, as does the rips in his clothing.

Samirah paces restlessly around the outer ring of cars. She makes one more pass and Dean mounts up again as she passes by.

_Idiot thing,_ Samirah mutters to herself as she heads for the shoulder of the road.

The humans sit in their cars dazed and confused. It takes about five minutes or so for them to start moving again. Samirah and Dean are a blank spot in their perception, and that's just as well. Everyone will have their own version of what happened. Everyone's alive, they're all okay, and that's the only thing Dean really cares about, but that demon thing never should have seen the light of day. The fact that it felt bold enough to come out is worrisome.

The weirdness continues.

Something crouches on the roof of a large white moving van parked just behind the tangle of cars. The driver doesn't seem to be aware of this thing. Delivery dude sits there idly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while he waits for traffic to start moving again. Dean has no doubt that if he saw what was on his truck the man would run screaming down the road.

The skin is dark brown, smooth, and leathery. This one looks like a giant bat. There's a suggestion of a bump where its nose would be. It doesn't have any eyes, but it tilts its head as it stares at horse and rider. The ears are long and ridiculous looking, like the antenna of a moth, but Dean doesn't laugh. He stares at it instead, stares at the thick, wavy blonde hair that covers its back. A long spiked tail whips idly back and forth, and those massive leathery wings are half unfurled.

_Another one. Huh._ Samirah snorts as she dances in place, still excited from all the commotion. Judging by the way she paws the ground with her left foreleg it's obvious that she thinks stomping the hell out of this one would be a mighty fine idea.

The thing's voice is a surprise: quiet, calm, almost cultured. "Horseman, are you going to end it all?"

"End it all?"

Bat boy gestures at the scene around them. It has three clawed fingers on each hand. "This dominion. This Earth."

Dean glares at it. "Hell no."

The thing smiles tightly. "Good." It leaps straight up. Those massive wings stroke once through the air. Gone.

_Different kind of pigeon,_ Samirah huffs.

Dean picks up the reins, and the black horse turns for home.

* * *

_Bastards,_ Tessa thinks to herself. They fade into view on the street all around her now. At one point, back when she was young and just starting out, she would have bowed her head in reverence to them. Not any more. She's been out here too long and she's seen too much.

"Castiel," Tessa nods. She stares at the other angel, a tall brown haired male. She doesn't know him.

"Tessa," Castiel smiles back. He's on her in a heartbeat, his hand around her throat. Her back slams into the pavement and he tightens his grip as his wings rise up and mantle them both.

"Dean and Sam Winchester," Castiel murmurs softly. "Do you know exactly where they are, reaper?"

"Get your damn hands off me. You can't do this!" Tessa fights the rising tide of panic inside her. So much has changed. Things are clearly not what they used to be in Heaven.

"Things have changed." Castiel tilts his head to one side. "I can do whatever I want to."

White light pours into Tessa's skin. Castiel smiles as she thrashes around underneath him.

His smile gets even wider as she finally arches her back and screams.

"Hey!" someone roars from behind. Castiel is jerked to his feet and spun around.

He goes cross-eyed as John Winchester plants his fist in his face. Twice.

The other angel turns around.

"Going somewhere?" Mary Winchester says sweetly.

It's a joke, really. He actually laughs as he walks towards her. He spreads his wings behind him to intimidate her, and Mary rolls her eyes. Big whoop.

She plants her foot on his instep, and the pain is white hot and blinding. He yelps in surprise. Mary grabs him by the balls and gives a really hard squeeze. The angel makes a choking noise as he crumples to the pavement, his wings twitching and quivering around his body.

"Well. Imagine that," John smirks. He tightens his grip on Castiel's collar. "And to think I heard you boys were dickless wonders."

"You can't do this!" Castiel snarls though the blood on his face.

Tessa lies there on the ground in amazement. John and Mary should _not_ have been able to do that. She hesitates as Mary walks up, smiling, and helps her to her feet.

"Well, like you said, things up here have changed. Let's go, Cassie, Casper, whatever the hell your name is." John drawls as he yanks the angel up roughly. "We need to talk."

* * *

_**Chapter 38 **__**to be posted next week.**_


	38. Chapter 38

**_A/N:_** There's Death, Famine, War, and Pestilence. And now, the humble beginnings of the fifth horseman: the Bitchface of the Apocalypse. This is all SciFiNutTX's fault. I gotta give credit where credit is due.

_**Anddd**_....over four hundred reviews! Thank you!

**_Lastly, the usual disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 38**_

Lillith looks like hell.

"Dean loves me…"

She digs her claws into her eyelids, yanks out a clump of broken eyelashes and doesn't even flinch. The floor around her is littered with broken lashes and strips of pink, brown and peach colored human flesh.

Another eyelash yanked out. "He loves me not."

Her dark blue skin is dry and cracked. Her ears droop almost to her shoulders (she's been gnawing on the tips of them) and even her horns are chipped and broken. Alastair remembers how regal and imposing she looked the first time he ever laid eyes on her. Now she's just pitiful, as she cowers in the corner of her room and jumps at the slightest movement. She sees her death, all right, but she's hiding from it, and she'll continue to hide for the rest of her eternal life if Hell will let her.

Hell's not going to let her.

"Gaelen...Gaelen loves me…yes, he does…"

_Ah well,_ Alastair thinks to himself. _It's a shame when legends fall short like this._ He's wearing a city employee now, one Albert Swanson, thirty years on the job, but after this ol' Albert will be in no condition to even care about his retirement. Albert was on his way to work this fine morning when Alastair surged out of the ground underneath his feet.

Swanson stopped screaming as soon as Alastair slipped inside.

"He…he loves me not…"

Lillith stares at the wire thin eyelash caught between her claws. She sniffs noisily, her face screws up, and large black tears roll down her face.

_Disgusting,_ Alastair thinks.

Another eyelash jerked out.

"Dean loves me...he...he l-loves me n-not..." Lillith's mouth twists and trembles.

"Lillith?" he murmurs softly, soothingly. She jerks her head up, those white eyes of hers blinking wildly in every other direction until she focuses on him. Albert is an older man, skinny, with a kindly face and oversized ears. He looks harmless, and that's the whole point. Lillith's smile is sharp and jagged as she relaxes. Albert has brown eyes, not green or copper and gold.

"There now, m'lady. It's all right." He reaches out and gently pats her hand. She's skin and bone underneath that leathery hide. "Cook has prepared one of your favorite dishes."

Lillith eyes the bowl in Alastair's left hand warily. "It's a light dish." He lifts the spoon, and her nose wrinkles at the scent of sautéed baby flesh. "Newborn, right out of the pre-natal unit at St. Elizabeth's nearby. Just a few bites, then. Can you do that?"

"I could eat a little," Lillith whispers. Even her voice is scratchy. "Not a lot."

Alastair fakes a look of understanding and sympathy as she leans forward, meets his hand and the spoon halfway. She sucks the meat into her mouth and chews reflexively. " 's good."

"You don't have to eat it all." Alastair spoons out some more, pauses as he gives Lillith enough time to swallow. Her guard's completely down. There's newborn in there, but that's not all.

There's also a _vair lopin_, a rare form of demonic parasite that takes over its host from the inside out. You are what you eat.

"Can't eat anymore." Lillith frowns up after a few more spoonfuls. She burps.

'That's all right." Alastair nods. She's eaten enough. He leans forward and daintily wipes the flesh and bits of juice from around her mouth. "Better?"

Lillith nods.

"Good. Good." Lillith's eyes are already glazing over. Another hour or two and the _vair lopin_ will be fully in control. "Your attendants are waiting for you," Alastair purrs. "Let's get you pretty again, hmm?"

* * *

"Well, well," Tiesen grins as Samirah and Dean fade in out of thin air into the courtyard. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Samirah walks along with her usual stately grace, then stops. Sam sits on the stairs between Ellen and Bobby. He stands up as Dean dismounts, stares at the black clothing and his brother with this intense stare that's a millisecond away from a bitchface: _That better be you, Dean, and not Gaelen…_

Dean walks up to him. Two feet away Dean's black cassock and greatcoat shifts into faded blue jeans with holes in the knees and battered brown leather. He wordlessly throws his arms around his brother and hugs him. Hard.

"D-Dean?" Sam sputters.

"Yeah. It's me." Dean's voice is muffled. He puts his nose into Sam's hair and he swears he can even smell that girly peach scented shampoo Sam used in his hair before he and Dad, before…

Dean closes his eyes, shakes his head a little to get rid of the seared flesh smell and smoky memory of Devil's Gate.

"Where's…where's Gaelen?"

"He's here too." Dean doesn't want to let go. Sam is warm again, gloriously warm, breath sounds and heartbeat and the hug goes on a little too long but Sam doesn't mind. Not one damn bit.

_I did this,_ Dean thinks as Sam pats him on the back. _Me._

Dean takes a deep breath, forces himself to breathe slow and deep.

Samirah rolls her eyes. _You're doing it again,_ she mutters inside his head. _Want me to come over there? _

_No. No, I'm good._

Chale snorts and Ellen shakes her head in disapproval. Rika obviously thinks the brotherly hug is the cutest thing she's seen in quite a while. Ajani, Ishmael, Actaeon and Samirah don't even try to pretend; they stand there as a group and stare at the brothers. Tiesen looks bored, and Bobby looks like he's right on the verge of saying something dry about "lady parts."

Tiesen clears his throat. "Our new brother can fight. A little."

Dean slowly pulls out of the hug first. He looks Sam up and down, checks for damage. Old habits die hard. Sam has some dirt on his chin and clothes, but no blood and, miracle of miracles, he still has all his limbs, fingers and toes.

"One of you?" Dean asks.

Chale says proudly, "All three of us."

Rika smirks. "I was first."

Sam stares at the ground and the tips of his ears blush red.

"Dude. She cleaned your clock?"

Sam casts a nervous sideways glance at Rika. "Uh, I don't hit girls."

Dean huffs in disbelief. "You _don't_? Since when?"

"Well, uh, she was little and then she grew big…." Sam's voice trails off.

"Huh. So she dusted your ass." Dean looks Sam up and down one more time. "Okay. We gotta talk about this. But I need to talk to Bobby first."

"Yeah, you do," the older man drawls. "Make it later, huh? Seems like you got a lot on your mind right now."

"Bobby, I don't…" Dean swallows past that lump in his throat. He's indirectly responsible for the destruction of this man's home and livelihood. He did that by asking Samirah to take him to Bobby's home when he was injured. Seems like everything he touches gets ripped up, burned or destroyed sooner or later. Finding out that he can bring life doesn't give Dean any comfort at all. There's a trick behind it. He doesn't trust it.

"Nothing I say is gonna make this any better, but…I'm sorry. I'm sorry about your place."

Sam frowns. "What about Bobby's place?"

"Go on now," Bobby rumbles. "We'll talk later."

Dean nods.

"Dean," Sam says earnestly, "Seriously, we gotta talk about what's going on. I want in on this fight."

Dean looks away, at the mountains off in the distance. Sam tenses up. He knows that look, it's stubborn yet somehow blank, the way Dean always looks when he's considering something he sure in the hell doesn't want to talk about.

"I don't want you going out there, Sam," Dean says slowly as he shakes his head. "I really don't. But I know _you_. I know you're not gonna listen to a damn word I say." Sam's unprepared for what happens next: Dean's right foot lashes out and kicks his legs out from underneath him.

Sam curses wordlessly. That side leg sweep must be some Horseman specialty; second time he's gotten nailed like that. He's still airborne as he feels the energy from Dean build up in the air all around him. When Sam lands on his ass the ground's gotten harder, rockier.

They're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. And they're not in the courtyard, either. They're up in the mountains now, away from the others, in a clearing surrounded by low hillsides.

Dean sighs as he looks around, then he looks down at his brother. "You're gonna have to show me what you got. "

It's like old times.

Sam can imagine John Winchester sitting on one of the rocks over there, watching his boys spar. They're not alone. Sam can sense the horses and Rika, Chale and Tiesen as they fade in with Bobby and Ellen. They settle in comfortably for the show at a safe distance.

Sam and Dean circle each other, and Sam knows it's all about controlling the space around him, inflicting as much damage as he can on his opponent and putting said bastard down permanently for the count. He's had that drilled into him so many times it's second nature.

"All right, Sam," John would drawl carelessly. "You gotta tighten it up. You're leaving yourself open."

Dean backs up as Sam presses him. Dean's motion is sure, smooth, as he blocks and parries and gets in a few well aimed hits of his own.

Rika seemed to flow in the air all around Sam; she was everywhere all at once. Chale was a brawler, pure and simple. Tiesen was a combination of the two, moving back and forth between each technique. Dean's fighting style is a combination of all three. He's always been able to improvise like a mad sonofabitch, able to think fast on his feet, adapt and change to whatever was thrown at him, and use whatever is at hand. He's a natural born melee fighter, and even when he was normal Dean was so good he was downright scary.

"Come on, Sam! Is that all you got?" Dean sounds angry. Dean's right hand, even though it's made of golden light, seems pretty damn solid. Sam's skin stings a little each time Dean hits him.

"Fine," Sam mutters to himself. He pushes himself a little harder. He's had four fights in about two hours time, and he's not tired, he's not even hungry, but whatever Dean is doing is beginning to piss Sam off. Dean's dressed in all black again, from head to toe, and that pisses Sam off too.

Another blow and Sam's skin prickles. Dean's eyes spark gold and copper; even the scars around his right eye catch and hold that glow. The others didn't use their abilities against him. So why the hell is Dean doing this?

"Stop it." Sam mutters.

Dean pays him no mind. He flicks his left hand towards Sam's chin, a glancing blow, and it stings, it burns enough to make Sam's eyes water.

"I said stop it."

"Why the hell should I?" Dean snaps. "You get in this fight, you can't ask some fug to play nice." Dean tags Sam again, this time with his right, and the pain is enough to make Sam's eyes water.

"I'm giving you a chance to step aside. A chance to stay out of this."

"You can't tell me what to do now," Sam gasps.

"You can't handle this." Dean's power builds in the air all around them, gold and copper energy rustling in the folds of Sam's clothing. Dean blocks the fist aimed at his face, fires back with several blows of his own that stagger Sam. "Quit being so damn stubborn and admit it!"

More blows.

"You got nothing, you hear me? Nothing!"

More pain.

"You can't handle this, Sammy. You can't."

Sam knows the exact moment when something inside him breaks open and rises free.

"SAMMY IS A CHUBBY FOUR YEAR OLD!" Sam roars. All around Sam and Dean rocks and boulders lift up and break into pieces. Sam's dimly aware that Tiesen, Rika and Chale have put up shields to protect Ellen and Bobby and the horses, but he's not focused on them.

"Shut up! Shut the hell up!" The cords in Sam's neck are so tightly strung he feels they're going to snap any moment. Something he can't identify rumbles underneath his skin, between his ears, powerful, just waiting for a chance to get out.

The wind picks up, and everything gets deadly quiet as the rocks and debris swirl in the air around Dean. Sam can't see his brother's face anymore, and that's when it hits him.

Dean kept poking him. Dean kept prodding him, and now…now he's…

Sam blinks. For a moment he's back in the closet at Max Miller's house.

Had to get to Dean. Dean's upstairs with Max Miller and his mother.

Sam remembers he groaned as he wrapped his mind around the cabinet, pleading silently with whoever was listening, _oh please, please…_

Dean lying dead on the floor upstairs with a bullet wound in his forehead, the wall behind him painted with blood and brains, and that image was enough, it was more than enough, Sam reached out with his mind, a small jerk, enough to move it, enough, he was surprised and startled, and a part of him, deep down inside, was pleased (_MOREMOREMORE_) but he didn't have time to think about it…

He has time to think about it now.

Dean. He did _that_ for Dean, but this…_this_ he's doing _to_ Dean.

Sam feels horror and shame as he staggers backwards. He lands on his ass, braces himself with his left arm. He raises his right hand as the debris cloud around Dean thickens and rotates like a funnel.

"No," Sam says aloud."Dean! Dean!"

Sam raises his right arm, his fingers slightly hooked, clawlike, as he pleads with his power, coaxes it _(notDean,please,don'thurthim,don't)_ and little by little the vibration in the air lessens. The rocks surge backward in a wave, crashing harmlessly to the ground in the clearing beyond. A dust cloud rises, then quickly dissipates.

"DEAN!"

Sam doesn't want to look.

But he does. He expects to see Dean lying on the ground broken, bruised and bloodied.

Dean stands there with both hands jammed into the pockets of his brown leather jacket. He rocks back and forth slightly on his heels and there isn't a scratch on him."Huh. So, that _all_ you got?"

"Never had a doubt," Bobby mutters. "Idjits."

_That's my boy,_ Samirah says proudly. She rises up on her hind legs and paws at the sky.

Tiesen claps. Chale makes a rude hooting sound, and Rika and Ellen high five each other.

"You're…you're okay?" Sam stammers. "I didn't…I didn't hurt you…"

Dean smirks at him. The expression's tinged with a little sadness, but it's still pure Dean. "Not even on your best day, little brother." He kneels and slaps the side of Sam's boot with his right hand.

"Not too shabby, Carrie." Dean turns, looks at the destruction around and behind them and nods. "Wouldn't want to piss you off at the prom." He puts up both hands chest high, palms out. "Gonna leave the bucket of pig blood at home this time. I promise."

Sam leans back on both elbows and laughs. "I…I did this." He feels all loose inside and well, giggly and somehow giddy.

"Yeah. You did." Dean stands up, reaches down with his right hand. "Let's try that again. You wanna get some control over it, so next time you don't even have to think about it. You shouldn't have to Hulk out each time."

Sam eyes the five fingered light show warily. "You gonna sting me again?"

Dean shrugs. "Not unless you got a kink for that kinda thing." He wiggles his fingers. "Come on. You wanna run with the big boys, you gotta earn it. Again, Sam."

Sam groans out loud as he puts his hand out and Dean pulls him up.

* * *

Pastor Jim Murphy realizes his mouth is hanging open.

Then he realizes who he's dealing with. These are the _Winchesters_, after all.

"Uh, Padre?" Mary whispers again. She shifts Castiel's weight on her shoulders. The angel is limp, unconscious, slung between John and Mary like a bag of groceries.

"Jim?" John grouses. "Sometime this year would be damn good." Tessa stands on the steps behind them and nervously glances up at the sky, and then the street.

"Oh. Of course." Jim steps aside as John and Mary hurry past with their burden.

"We would have taken him over to our place," John says, "but we're further uptown. Don't think dragging an unconscious angel through the streets of Heaven would play very well with the neighbors," John says with a grin. Pastor Jim closes the door behind them.

"In here." Tessa walks into the living room, picks out a blank wall. She turns to Pastor Jim with a smile and puts out her hand. "My name is Tessa."

Her handshake is firm, but what Jim picks up from her makes his eyes widen. "You're a Reaper."

"Yes I am. Do you have a Magic Marker? Something I could write with?"

Kitchen junk drawer. Some things never change, whether on earth or in Heaven.

"Thank you." Tessa uncaps the marker, draws a large sigil on the wall, a large triangle with circles at each point, and words that look like Latin drawn in the center of the triangle and through the center of the circles. Languages and symbols have always been Jim Murphy's passion: he's too engrossed in trying to decipher the meaning to even get upset that she's drawing on his wall.

"Okay." Tessa steps back, nods at John and Mary. "Hang him up there."

It works. Castiel is stuck to the wall like a fly stuck in flypaper. John gives a satisfied grunt as he steps back and surveys their handiwork.

Pastor Jim looks sad. "I sensed that things had changed, but I never thought it would come to all of this."

"I've…_we've_ heard rumors. The Reapers…Everyone has. That God has left the building. That He's off on vacation, gone fishing." Tessa shrugs. "It depends who you talk to."

Pastor Jim smiles a little. "I prefer to believe otherwise." He nods towards Castiel. "This is God's will."

Mary frowns. "How do you figure that?"

"Well. If God didn't want any of this to happen, it wouldn't."

* * *

**_A/N:_** Not my usual evil cliffie, I know. Next post: Monday. Sam's training continues as he gets his very own apocahorse, and some other weird stuff happens.


	39. Chapter 39

_**A/N:**_ It's Monday.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 39**_

Humans are such fragile creatures. The sight of Lillith being cared for by her attendants, stripped down to her bare, dark blue leathery skin and bathed in infant blood, wasn't _that_ horrific. The meatsuit Alastair was occupying at the time, the unfortunate Albert Swanson, took one look and his heart promptly stopped. Alastair rolled his eyes when he felt the life and the spirit inside the body just wither away. Good grief, Alastair's seen worse.

Apparently Albert hadn't.

If there's one thing Alastair hates, it's reanimating dead meat. He hangs around long enough to ensure that the _vapir lopin_ Lillith ingested was well on its way inside her, and then he slipped out of Albert and went back down to Hell.

Albert ended up as a late afternoon snack for Cook and some of the servants who really weren't that picky about _who_ they ate.

Alastair dislikes assigning important work to others, but sometimes it has to be done. His field of expertise is the Rack Room, of course, as Hell's Grand Inquisitor, but ironically enough he usually gets the best materials and beings for whatever extra job he's assigned because no one wants a place on one of his Racks, and _everyone_ wants to stay on his good side.

"Well?" Alastair growls out loud to his minions around him. He's not pissed but it's best that they think he is. "Why are you just standing around? Those souls are_ not_ going to shred themselves."

The rest of the tormentors scurry away. So many souls to rip apart, so little time.

Teo, Alastair's second in charge, backs away bowing and scraping. Teo was an American politician topside. He campaigned for morality and family values, and he died of a heart attack while he was ah, polling the electorate, a pair of female impersonators in Chicago, Illinois.

The late night comedians had a field day with that one. Teo went black-eyed pretty quickly down in Hell.

"Lucifer wants to see you at _your _earliest convenience," Teo purrs. "He wants to see if the Leeches meet your approval."

"Fine. What about my special racks? The ones for the Horsemen?"

"They are ready, m'lord." Teo makes a sweeping bow towards the room behind him.

Alastair walks toward the room, and Teo follows him like a whipped puppy, cringing and bowing.

_Ah, perfection._ Alastair runs his hand all over the dark wood and black metal of the nearest rack. It's specially made, with containment symbols carved all over. There are eight in all: four for the Horsemen, four for their horses. Alastair is especially curious about the relationship between the riders and their beasts.

Alastair closes his eyes as he drags his claws over the wood. He thinks of Dean Winchester, beautiful, bruised and bloodied, strapped down, helpless, as Alastair skins that great black mare of his. He imagines Winchester's green eyes alight with shared pain and rage as the animal shrieks in agony, and the thought makes Alastair smile.

Teo's never seen Alastair smile. The expression frightens him.

* * *

Nahele pricks his ears. He senses her coming long before he even sees her. He paces along the top of the ridge as the wind picks up, and the clouds overhead sing a wordless chorus. Even the sunlight and the blue sky gets brighter, and why not?

Their favored daughter, the wayward one, is coming home, if only for a short while.

This time he climbs up to the highest point in the valley to meet her. It's not like he hasn't done this before. He has, but that was just for fun. Nahele runs for the pure pleasure of it, all the time. His motion is smooth and powerful. He carries his tail like a proud banner and his chestnut and white coat glows brightly.

He can sense his grandparents down in the valley below. The gigantic dark grey stallion, Al-Wahed, stands there quietly. Ya-bint-al-hawa, her icy white coat shining in the sunlight, stands beside him, as still as a statue.

The wind picks up. A crack of thunder and lightning splits the sky above the ridge. Samirah steps daintily into view, ears pricked, nostrils flaring wide and excited. She circles Nahele, nuzzles him all about the head and neck, and her touch makes him shiver with pleasure from nose to tail.

Samirah sees her parents waiting for her below, and she kicks up her heels in pure joy. She turns and Nahele races her to the bottom of the hill.

They've all waited a long time for this. Now the outside world can wait, for a while, at least.

* * *

Hours later Ellen appears in the doorway of Sam's bedroom with a large, juicy red apple in her hand. She winks at Sam. "Grub's on, kiddo. Rika's treat." Ellen takes a big bite out of the apple, closes her eyes as she savors the taste. The apple is perfect, the best damn apple she's ever tasted.

"There's other food too. She's put on quite a spread down there. Dean said you'd probably like a salad instead of meat ---"

At the mention of Dean's name, Sam groans, shifts slightly on the bed, and throws his right arm over his eyes. He doesn't mean to be rude, but he just doesn't have the energy to do anything but lie on his back and breathe. His head hurts, and so does his body. He's used muscles he never even knew he had. Seven straight hours of sparring, of moving things with his mind until his head ached.

Dean threw rocks at him, taught him how to throw up and maintain a shield. Sometimes the power worked, and sometimes it didn't.

Sam has the bruises to prove it.

Did that satisfy Dean? _Oh, no. _Dean threw boulders at him. Large, heavy ones. "Think fast. Sam."

And just when Sam thought he was done, Dean clapped him on the shoulder and said "One more time. Then we'll start all over again tomorrow."

Sam knows one thing, though: his brother, Dean Winchester, is a heartless bastard.

That's a fact.

Ellen smirks. "What's the matter? Thought Horsemen don't get tired."

"That's what I thought too," Sam says wearily.

"Well, come on down when you can," Ellen murmurs. She steps away from the doorway, leaves Sam with his thoughts.

He listens to his heartbeat, feels his chest expand as he inhales and exhales. Those are sounds he never thought he'd ever hear again. Sam drifts off a little as his muscles relax more.

"Hey. Sam?"

_Crap._ It's Dean the slave driver. The merciless one.

_Drop and give me fifteen hundred push-ups, Sam. Right frickin' NOW. _

Sam blinks as he pulls his arm away from his eyes.

Dean's in the doorway with a large glass bowl in his hand.

"I was just resting my eyes," Sam blurts out as he sits up. He feels like he's eight again, like somehow he has to give an excuse for not being in constant motion. Dean always was, even as a kid. Even now it's seems strange to see Dean in a quiet moment.

Sam squints. Looks like leafy greens in that bowl. Dean has a silver fork in his other hand. Sam stares at the bowl and then at Dean's face. In spite of the light stubble and the fine thin scars around his right eye, Dean looks young, and kind of uncertain, not ageless and cocksure like he did when they sparred. Dean walks over and sits on the bed as Sam sits up and swings his legs and feet over.

He hands the bowl over to Sam. "Uh, Rika made this especially for you. Said you might like it."

All he sees is an assortment of mixed salad greens in there at first. He blinks, and suddenly there's cranberries, sunflower seeds, plum tomatoes and avocado, topped with raspberry walnut vinaigrette.

It was just what he wanted. All he had to do was think about it.

_Damn. _

Dean shrugs as he hands him the fork. "Whatever you like, whenever you want it."

Sam lifts the bowl in his hand, stares at it. It seems normal enough, just a glass bowl tinted various shades of light blue, the darkest shade in a ring around the bottom.

"Never ending salad bowl?" Sam grins a little. "And she's Famine too, huh?"

"Yep. Talk about one stop shopping."

Sam raises the first forkful to his mouth. Oh, God, the explosion of flavor and taste in Sam's mouth renders him speechless for a moment. He closes his eyes.

Dean laughs as he gets up. "Well, come on down later if you want to. We got ourselves a card game going on. You can sit in if you want to." He rubs his hands together as his eyes narrow in a calculating way. "It's like picking low hanging fruit."

"Dean, wait a minute."

There's a chick flick moment lurking around here somewhere. Dean looks wary; he can sense it, he can feel it. He looked more comfortable when they were sparring. Instead of walking out the door he goes over to the window instead.

Down in the courtyard Actaeon trots around with what seems to be a huge blue rubber ball with a handle in her mouth. The huge white mare drops it and whirls around, kicks it with her hind legs even before the ball hits the ground.

Ajani backs up and uses his forelegs to hustle the ball for some distance, before he kicks it to Ishmael.

Sam follows Dean over, stands there eating, and it's true, the bowl doesn't have a bottom. He could get used to this. He looks out over Dean's shoulder. "Where's Samirah?"

"Gone to get you a horse," Dean says.

It hits him then, like a ton of bricks. Sam suddenly loses his appetite. He's a _Horseman _now.

_Horsemen ride horses_.

Sam never really thought about _that_ before, and the idea of_ Samirah_ picking out a horse for him leaves him cold. Dean left it up to _her_. Not good.

Samirah has a wicked sense of humor, and Sam's not entirely sure that they like each other. Like it or not, they view each other as competition.

Competition for _Dean_.

_He was mine long before he was yours, little boy._

She'll probably come back with a mule or something. A miniature pony. A pot-bellied pig. A zebra.

A donkey.

Or a giraffe.

Dean scowls when he looks at his brother. "All right. What was _that_ for?"

"You reading my mind?"

"No, dummy, I can see it on your face."

"Uh, Dean, I don't wanna ride a horse."

Dean blinks. "Why not? You rode Samirah when Gaelen was out."

"That…that was different."

"Okay." Dean huffs. " 'splain it to me, Lucy."

"Umm… "

"Well, come on. Give. Why don't you want to ride a horse? I know you never liked them, but --"

Sam sighs. "I'm afraid of them, okay? They make me nervous."

Dean stares at his brother in amazement. The thought honestly had _never_ occurred to him. Up until now he'd thought that Sam's avoidance of horses was just a preference and not a real issue. Sam sees the exact moment in those moss green eyes when Dean just shuts down. He pulls away. He's unavailable to Sam now. The wall's up, and Sam curses himself because he was the stupid jackass who triggered that response in Dean in the first place.

"They're too b-big," Sam stammers, and crap, Dean looks like somebody just stepped on his puppy.

It's an awkward moment. They watch silently as Ishmael, Chale's big dappled grey, sidles over to Actaeon and the white mare nuzzles the side of the grey's neck and shoulder. Ishmael nuzzles her back.

"Hey, uh, if you wouldn't mind…would you let me drive the Impala?" Sam asks hopefully a moment later.

"Uh…." Dean's eyes go out of focus. His shoulders twitch. "The Impala was at Bobby's place. Bobby's place is gone. My baby is gone," Dean says stiffly.

"Oh." Sam stops and stares into the distance. _Crap._ He clears his throat a moment later. "Well, um…I can drive a car."

Dean slowly turns his head and stares at him. Hard.

"How about a Mustang?"

The look on Dean's face is one of disbelief. "That's the lamest thing I ever heard. A Horseman driving a Mustang? Geez, Sam." He shakes his head, looks down just as Ajani pogo sticks across the courtyard, his tail streaming behind him like a flag. The big red stallion seems more like a playful foal now.

Dean sighs resignedly. He's ready to throw in the towel, and in a moment of sudden clarity Sam remembers that hunt up near Elsberg, Wisconsin that went south. Two years ago they were out in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a frickin' blizzard. The fugly tagged Dean with a poison dart before he was able to gun it down, and there was no other treatment but to let the poison burn its way through his body and hope like hell he was strong enough to survive.

They spent three days in the cabin nearby, while Dean tossed and turned on the bed, eyes glazed with fever, out of his head, calling for his Mom and Dad and wondering out loud why they didn't come when he called out for them.

At one point Dean became lucid.

"It's okay," Dean slurred. He was calm, resigned to what he considered to be a fact. " 's all right. Everybody leaves me. Everybody. You can go too. I know you want to, 'cause you're no different, Sammy."

_I ran off before,_ Sam thinks now. _To Stanford. I ditched Dean by the side of the road, left him on his own in Burkittsville with that damn scarecrow god. I run. I always do. _

_And he's always there when I come back. _

"I mean, I know, none of this is what you signed on for. I get it," Dean says slowly. "You can always back out. I won't think any less of you if you do."

"I'm not backing out. You're stuck with me."

The corners of Dean's mouth turn up in a smirk. "Is that a fact?"

Sam nods. "That's a fact."

"Okay then. Of course," Dean drawls softly. "Of course, you know I'll have to tease you about bein' afraid of horses for the rest of your life 'cause that's the kinda awesome big brother I am."

"Bring it on," Sam huffs. His appetite suddenly comes roaring back. This time Sam thinks of orange slices and sure enough several appear in the bowl. He spears one with the fork and pops it into his mouth. "Have you talked to Bobby?"

Dean nods. "Yeah. He called me an idjit a few times. Told me the next time I made a deal with a demon he was gonna kick my dumb ass from here to Tucson, Arizona."

"Yeah, that's Bobby."

Dean stares at the darkening horizon over the mountains in the distance. "I still gotta make it up to him, though." Dean's eyes narrow and he lifts his chin up slightly. "I'm going to. Big time."

"Bobby knows you will."

"Okay then," Dean says briskly. Chick flick moment's over, and it wasn't so bad. He gives Sam a sideways glance. "You up for a card game, Samantha?"

Sam grins. "I sure am, Deanna."

"All right then. Let's go show 'em how it's done."

* * *

Castiel talks nonstop.

He talks about how his Heavenly Father is not around anymore. He talks about how he and Michael and the others are keeping things together in His absence. Dean Winchester and the Horsemen will trigger the Apocalypse by killing Lillith in Las Vegas, Nevada in five days time. The Angel of Death, Abaddon, will rise and the final battle, the end of all there is will begin.

Castiel talks and talks and talks. Judging from the panicked look in those intense blue eyes of his, he doesn't really understand why he can't shut up. He tries to clamp his lips tight together but the words just keep rolling out.

Apparently the sigil not only pins him in one place, it also compels him to tell the truth.

John and Mary are impressed.

Pastor Jim admits he's a little appalled by all this.

Mary smiles at Tessa. "Neat trick. Mind telling us where you got that?"

Tessa shrugs. "We've been waiting to talk to an angel for a long time. This is just something one of our scholars dug up." John quirks an eyebrow at her. "Not everyone wants this world to end," Tessa says quietly.

Caleb, Samuel and Deanna Campbell arrive just as Castiel is telling all this the third time around. When the angel retells the story for the fourth time, John scowls a little at Tessa. "You got him talking all right. Now, is there any chance you can get him to shut the hell up?"

Tessa shrugs. "The only way to shut him up is to let him down."

"Nah," John drawls. "Never mind."

Mary takes John by the hand and motions for the rest to follow her out in the hallway. Castiel's eyes widen as he watches them go. He rolls into a fifth re-telling of the beginning of the Apocalypse and he doesn't miss a beat.

"We have to leave," Mary says simply.

Deanna nods. "Our boys need our help. We gotta go back."

Tessa eyes the room behind them. "I agree. It's not safe here for you. Not anymore."

Samuel Campbell looks at Tessa sternly. "Well? Any ideas?"

"I know a place." Tessa smiles a little.

Castiel never stops talking. He's embarrassed and ashamed when Anna finds him in that same position hours later.

"Will you shut up!" Anna roars, and he doesn't, he can't. Not until he's pulled down and half the wall comes down with him.

The house is empty. Heaven loses six souls that day. John and Mary Winchester, Caleb, Jim Murphy and Deanna and Samuel Campbell are gone.

* * *

"Damn. That didn't go the way I thought it would," Dean says quietly. He stoops down, picks up a pebble in the courtyard and slings it as far as he can. The pebble sails out over the courtyard gate in a wide arc.

"Ya think?" Sam mutters. He jams his hands in his pockets and scuffs the toe of his left foot in the dirt."Dude. We just got our heads handed to us."

Turns out Rika is a shark at the card table. After his bluff didn't work and he folded, Dean glared at her.

Rika batted her eyelashes at him innocently. "What? That was something my father taught me."

Bobby just about busted a gut laughing. Ellen laughed about it. They didn't have much in the pot anyway. Dean turned his fierce glare on Tiesen and Chale. "And when were you two geniuses gonna warn us about her?"

Chale did a surprisingly good job of looking innocent.

Tiesen rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "It's been a while. We thought it was just a fluke before."

"Uh huh," Dean growled. "Some fluke." Rika shrugged modestly as she pulled the pile of gold coins towards her.

Now Dean looks up at the full moon overhead, and he stops, cocks his head to one side. Sam can hear it too.

Hoofbeats.

Neither of them are surprised when Samirah gallops into view. She pulls up a few feet away from Dean and Sam. The huge black horse dances in place as she whickers a soft welcome to everyone.

She's not alone.

The horse with her is almost as big as she is. The head is chiseled, somehow delicate. Dean realizes the newcomer has the same oversized Arabian conformation as Samirah, but the color of its coat is wild: a splash of chestnut color on its chest, poll and ears, the rest is bright white. Its long, thick tail and mane are streaked with chestnut and white, and the white part of that glowing coat is wildly spotted with cat track prints. Dean realizes the horse is male. He has white stockings on all four feet. His hooves are light tan, compared with Samirah's solid black ones.

The other horses stop dead in their tracks. Even Ajani is at a loss for words. They don't approach, not yet, anyway. Samirah has not given them permission, and they respect that. Samirah steps towards Dean with her head held high. The newcomer lowers his head; he has one copper eye and one startling sky blue one.

Dean stares intently at the animal for a moment. His moss green eyes darken slightly with an emotion Samirah doesn't recognize. The alert expression on Dean's face relaxes and his eyes soften as he looks Samirah in the eyes.

He _knows_, even before Samirah speaks, but she says it out loud anyway, for Sam's benefit.

"This is Nahele," Samirah says simply. "He is my son."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ _Al-Wahed _means _The Only One_. _Ya-bint-al-hawa_ means _Daughter of the Wind_, and _Nahele_ means _Forest_. Who's Nahele's daddy? I'll let Samirah explain that. Next post is Saturday. Haven't gotten around to answering reviews, but I want you to know I'm working on that right now. I appreciate each and every one, and hello to all the lurkers and the folks who have this on fav/story alert. Thanks for reading!


	40. Chapter 40

_**Chapter 40**_

_He's got spots_, Ajani mutters. _Samirah doesn't have spots._

The huge red stallion tilts his head slightly to the side. His ears twitch backwards, as though he's not entirely sure he likes the idea of spots. He can't wait to get in closer and take a_ really_ good look at Samirah's son.

_So?_ Actaeon murmurs. _Spots, dabbles, what's the difference?_ There's not a spot of color or a shadow on her sleek, pure white coat.

Ishmael proudly pricks his ears and lifts his head up high. _I have dapples._

Ajani nearly goes cross eyed as he pushes his nose up against Ishmael's shoulder for a closer look. _No, you don't. They're spots._

_No, they're not._ Ishmael says serenely. _They're dapples._

_They look like spots to me, _Ajani grumbles.

Actaeon slaps at Ajani with her long silky tail._ Will you stop that? Besides, you have spots. _

Ajani looks offended._ I do not. _

_Yes, you do. On your shoulders and your hindquarters _

_That's shading, _Ajani snaps._ That's not spots._

_Whatever._

_

* * *

_Dean nods.

Nahele very slowly, very gracefully, extends his right front foreleg, bends his left. His hind legs bend just enough as he returns the bow. His long mane brushes the ground. The horse holds the pose perfectly for a moment and then smoothly straightens back up.

"Damn," Sam whispers aloud.

Samirah looks pleased.

Bobby walks out onto the porch, closely followed by Rumsfeld2. The big Rottie was underneath the dining room table feasting on half of a baked chicken Rika did especially for him. His dark eyes brighten; he grins and his stub of a tail wags furiously when he sees Samirah.

When he sees Nahele Rumsfeld2's brow furls up; he stops, sits down, and cocks his head to one side. He seems puzzled.

Rumsfeld2 gets up, heads down the stairs into the courtyard just as Chale and Ellen come out. Bobby whistles for him to come back and the dog ignores him.

Bobby scowls. That's not good, on more than one level.

Samirah tenses up as Rumsfeld2 approaches. Dean goes perfectly still. Doesn't matter if Rumsfeld2's Bobby's dog, if he attacks Nahele, even if he just chases him, Dean's not sure Samirah could stop herself from stomping him into a grease spot even if Dean begged her not to.

The big Rottie stops, sits down on Nahele's right, and stares up at the horse as though he's trying to figure out where _this _one came from. Nahele lowers his head in the dog's direction, ears twitching, nostrils flared.

Rumsfeld2 takes a good long sniff. Nahele eyes him warily. Dean watches Samirah out of the corner of his eye; she's concentrated on the dog, but she hasn't moved on him.

Yet.

Nahele is just as curious about the dog; it's his first time seeing one. This _couldn't _be a horse. Too small. Head doesn't look right and it smells funny. Nahele stretches his neck out until they're nose to nose.

Rumsfeld2 gently, almost daintily, leans forward and licks Nahele's nose. _Pleased to meet'cha._

Nahele jerks back a little, casts an anxious glance at his mother. Samirah visibly relaxes. And after a second or two everyone else does too.

Rumsfeld2 seems satisfied. The dog gets up and pads back up the stairs. He sits down next to Bobby and leans into him, bumps his head insistently against the side of the hunter's leg, demanding a head rub.

"Damn idjit," Bobby mutters. " 'm not rewarding you for ignoring me." Damn fool dog hasn't been any good since he laid eyes on the Horsemen. Still and all, five minutes later Bobby's right hand drops down and skritches the damn fool dog underneath his chin.

* * *

Everything inside Sam comes to a screeching halt.

She brought her own son to be his horse. Huh.

Sam would have been more prepared, more comfortable, if Samirah had shown up with a pig or a donkey as his mount, and how screwed up is _that_? This was something he didn't expect. _Does this mean she likes me,_ he wonders?

Nah. Couldn't be.

It's a trick. It has to be.

_I'm doomed,_ Sam thinks. _It's her way of getting rid of me. Damn horse._ He glances sideways at Dean, and Dean's standing there smiling at the newcomer. Figures. Dean's _never_ met a horse he _didn't_ like.

_Damn Dean_. The Impala was destroyed because of _him_.

_Damn big brothers._ Damn it, Sam would have been perfectly content to drive a Mustang. Or a Jeep. Maybe even a Camry.

_Damn Horsemen and their damn horses and their damn traditions… _

Of course, Dean's timing is just as uncanny as always. He's not inside Sam's head, at least Sam doesn't think he is. Dean glances over, and Sam doesn't miss that wicked glint in his brother's eyes.

_Oh, crap._

"You know, I've been thinking. You need a name, Sammy."

"A name?"

"Well, sure." Dean nods. "We're the Four Horsemen. Five now. Wait, I've got it."

"Yeah?"

"We've got War, Death, Pestilence, Famine, and now Bitchface."

"Bitchface?" Sam squeaks.

Samirah rumbles laughter.

"Yep. That's you," Dean smirks.

"The Bitchface of the Apocalypse?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

" 'cause when you use your power you look like you're pissed off." The bitchface Sam directs at him makes Dean widen his eyes in mock shock. That innocent look on his face does look _very _convincing. "What? I thought you'd like that one."

"That's not funny, Dean."

"Huh. I thought it was funny."

Nahele looks puzzled. He doesn't get the reference, and somehow Sam likes him even more for that, but he's still wary of the animal.

Sam startles as something pushes into his upper back. He glances behind and sees it's Samirah, not Dean. She pushes that velvet black nose of hers into his back as she pushes him forward. She's an irresistible force, and apparently he's a very movable object.

Sam comes to a stop about a foot or so away. Sam stares at Nahele, and the horse stares right back at him.

Awkward.

"D-Dean?" God, he sounds like a four year old. "What…what'll I do now?"

"Do?" Dean says, and when Sam turns around he sees the one thing he doesn't want to see right now: Dean's up on Samirah's back, sitting relaxed and easy, with no tack, that glowing right hand of his twined in her long mane. "Uh, lemme guess." Dean quirks an eyebrow at his brother. "Hmmm…you uh, _talk_ to each other?"

"T-Talk?"

"Yeah. You know. Talk." Samirah walks in a smooth circle around Nahele and Sam. Dean raises his left hand and makes a sock puppet-like motion with his hand, opens and closes his thumb against the bottom of his fingers several times. "Talk. You know, that thing you do where the funny sounds come out of your mouth?"

Samirah turns towards the courtyard gate. "So where are you going?" Sam calls out.

"Duh. For a ride," Dean calls back.

"Uh, can I come?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow." Dean turns around halfway. "Right now you crazy kids need some alone time."

Samirah and Dean disappear in a wave of copper static and golden light. Sam stares longingly after them. He's preoccupied, doesn't mean to be rude, but in the next instance he's startled when Nahele begins pacing around him in a complete circle, his neck slightly stretched out towards Sam, his head bobbing up and down slightly.

The animal's blue eye is a startling sky blue. The other eye is pure Samirah, softly glowing reddish gold. His ears twitch back and forth, and he carries his tail high, like a flag behind him. It suddenly occurs to Sam that maybe he was pissed for being ignored like that.

"Hi, I'm Sam." Sam sticks his hand out before he even knows it. Nahele eyes the hand rather doubtfully. For a crazy moment Sam actually expects the horse to lift one hoof and shake hands, but he doesn't. The tips of Sam's ears blush furious crimson.

Several feet away Ajani mumbles loudly, "Yah, this is gonna go well." Actaeon and Ishmael both shush him.

Nahele raises his head, stands tall and proud. _My name is Nahele, out of Samirah and Sunka Tanka. My dam is Death's Eternal Apocahorse, _he says formally._ My sire is the Great Spirit Horse. _Nahele's thought voice is a little lower than Samirah's, unmistakenly male. His lips never move. The total effect is_ not_ like Mr. Ed, Sam thinks. Not at all.

Great Spirit Horse? Damn. Sam makes a mental note to do some research as soon as he can get on the internet.

He decides to try it again. _My name is Sam Winchester, out of Mary and John Winchester, from Lawrence, Kansas. _

Nahele nods.

_Who's Mr. Ed?_ Nahele says.

"Uh, talking horse," Sam says out loud. Oops.

_He belonged to a Horseman?_

Sam keeps a straight face. _No, Wilbur was an architect._

_A what?_

_He designed buildings._

_Uh huh. _It's clear that Nahele doesn't know what the hell Sam's talking about._ My mother told me about you. _

_She did?_

Another nod._ She said you screamed when she ran fast. Why?_

_I, ah, wasn't used to it._

_Oh. _

Sam jams both hands into his jeans pockets. He's glad no one else can hear (at least he doesn't think they can). _Did she…did Samirah order you to do this?_

_Order me?_ Nahele frowns. He shakes that delicate, chiseled head of his. _No. She came and asked me._

_Um…so you could have said no if you wanted to?_

_Yes. I still can. She said we could help each other, asked me to consider being your horse. _

_Help each other? _

_She said we both needed a purpose in this world. _Nahele moves around Sam again in a circle, ears pricked. He gives Sam a final up and down look, and then shakes his head _yes._

_I've been accepted,_ Sam thinks to himself.

_I've never had a rider before, but I know what my mother taught me about them. _Nahele looks at Sam's large hands and feet and snorts. _You don't pull on the reins. You don't kick me. You remember that, and we'll get along fine. _

Sam huffs a laugh. Nahele's his mother's son, all right. Sam suddenly remembers that he really didn't thank Samirah properly. After all, she's Death's Eternal Apocahorse, and Sam certainly doesn't want to piss her off.

Well, not about _this_, anyway.

* * *

Ellen leans her head against Chale's shoulder as she hugs his arm. He's big, solid, and warm. For a moment she wonders what would happen if he walked into the Roadhouse. Not like he's got horns or a tail or anything. Put him in a tee shirt and a pair of jeans and no one would probably glance at him twice. Well, on second thought, they might. Chale's got muscles where normal men don't.

"Are they coming back any time soon?" She nods at the courtyard gate. "Dean and Samirah, I mean."

Chale shrugs. "Couple of hours, I guess. Why?"

"I think it's time for me to go home," Ellen says simply.

Bobby grunts.

"Oh hell no, Bobby Singer," Ellen drawls. "You're coming to the Roadhouse with me."

Chale looks disappointed. "You're leaving? I thought you were going to stay here until this is over."

Ellen hugs his arm as she looks up at him. "I can't. I have to see about my family and my business." she adds hastily as he looks even more stricken.

_He's worried about me,_ Ellen thinks to herself. _Damn._ "It's not that this hasn't been nice. It has. I've enjoyed being here, you know I have, but…"

Big bad Pestilence suddenly looks like a little boy who's been told that playtime's over.

After a second or two his broad face eases into a more pleasant expression.

_Good Lord,_ Ellen thinks, _he's got dimples._

"Tell you what. I want to call in a favor, make sure you have protection. Both of you," Chale nods at Bobby, "and where ever it is you're going. Give me twenty four hours, then I'll take you home. Can you wait that long?"

Ellen nods. "Sure. Okay. You going to come by and see me later?"

Chale gives her a confused look that is totally fake. "Uh, when?"

Ellen punches him in the arm and he groans, pretends to double over. "_After_ I leave. At the Roadhouse."

Chale grins. "Oh, hell _yeah_."

"Gonna have to ditch the armor."

"I can do that."

Ellen smiles coyly. "What else are you going to do?"

"After this is all over? I will sing to you, m'lady. I will woo you in the manner and fashion you deserve."

Ellen smiles. "Oh really?"

"Oh brother." Bobby slaps his leg and Rumsfeld2 perks up. "Get a room, you two." He looks down at the dog and whistles. "Let's go for a walk, you old fleabag."

Bobby walks down the stairs with Rumsfeld2 as his shadow. The dog wants to go over to Sam and Nahele, and Bobby gives him the evil eye. "You better stay with me, pup.

The big Rottie grumbles, but he does as he's told.

"You like show tunes?" Chale says with a quirked eyebrow.

"Depends. Surprise me."

"Getting to know you, getting to know all about you. Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me."

Well now. Chale's voice is low but pleasant. He can actually carry a tune. Ellen's impressed. It's kind of sappy, but nice too, to be courted like that.

"Getting to know you, putting it my way, but nicely, you are precisely, my cup of tea ---"

Tiesen and Rika walk out of the house together, and without hesitation Tiesen walks up behind his brother and thraps him in the back of the head. Chale's head bobbles and he promptly stops singing.

Rika laughs.

Tiesen nods, satisfied. "Didn't I tell you about those damn show tunes?" he growls.

Ellen gives Rika a puzzled look.

"San Francisco," the young girl shrugs. "Back in the seventies. We were there on vacation. There was this community theatre doing their version of 'The King And I'."

"Amateurs," Tiesen snorts. "Sounded like cats in heat."

Rika rolls her eyes. "It got ugly." She doesn't mention that while she and Tiesen were sitting in the audience a sinkhole opened up that day and swallowed the main stage right at the exact moment the lead female singer and the rest of the troupe were mangling the song "Getting To Know You."

The audience survived, at least.

Masaw, the Guardian of the Dead, later filed a Peace Disturbance grievance against Tiesen, which was later dropped: seems the dead castmates still insisted on putting on a show in the Underworld.

Being dead definitely did _not_ improve their singing ability.

Removing their vocal chords did the trick.

Chale rubs the back of his sore head and blinks at his brother. Tiesen's expression softens slightly. "Sorry, brother. It was a reflex action." He looks suddenly shy and somewhat awkward, almost as though he's a little embarrassed by his outburst.

Tiesen looks down at his boots. "You sounded all right. I guess."

Rika leans against the stone railing and watches Sam as he walks around the courtyard.

Nahele is his brightly spotted shadow, bright white and glowing chestnut underneath the pale moonlight. Rika can tell they're having a two way conversation; Sam listens intently as the horse makes a silent comment. Sometimes Sam speaks out loud, but more and more he uses his thought voice. The look on his face is intense, and he gestures a lot. Nahele watches Sam alertly, nods his head up and down.

The remaining three apocahorses stand off to the side and stare.

Best to give Sam and Nahele some space, Rika decides, some real time alone. "Think I'll go for a ride too." She quirks an eyebrow at Tiesen. "You coming?"

Tiesen shrugs. "What the hell."

Chale looks at Ellen and shakes his head. "I'll pass. See if Ishmael wants to go. He should stretch his legs."

Rika grins at Tiesen. "Race you."

* * *

"Sunka Tanka, huh? The Protector of the Universe?" Dean looks out over the valley. The view up here is spectacular. The forest is old, and that downed tree at the top of the hillside behind them was ancient when our world was young and wild.

Over the next valley huge multi-colored birds wheel and dance through the sky. They left our world hundreds of years ago; it's safer, quieter here.

It's just the man and the horse and the solitary trees up here, standing together, alone and relaxed, underneath a heartbreakingly beautiful blue sky. The wind gently rustles Dean's hair and clothing as he leans back against the ancient tree trunk. It's a beautiful place for a chick flick moment, so he might as well enjoy it while he can. They won't have time for this later on.

"I'm glad you found someone while I was gone." Dean says quietly. He looks at Samirah with deep affection. "And I'm…I'm sorry I had to leave you in the first place."

Samirah nuzzles the top of Dean's head._ Nothing for you to feel sorry about_.

"I gotta say this though," Dean says with a touch of wonder in his voice. "The Protector of the Universe falls in love with an apocahorse. How'd that go over with his folks?"

Samirah shrugs. _I was accepted into their herd. I couldn't stay, though._

"You kept looking for me."

_Yes. _

Dean's face goes blank. He looks away, at the mountains in the distance.

_You're doing it again, _Samirah sighs._ This is not your burden._

The wind picks up, and Ishmael runs into view from _somewhen_, kicking his heels up with pure joy as he runs past them down the hillside. The air shimmers copper; Rika and Tiesen astride Actaeon and Ajani appear next. They sit their horses and make no move to dismount.

"You need some company or should we keep riding?" Tiesen calls out.

"No," Dean grins. "Pull up a tree trunk. How's Sam and Nahele?"

"They're fine." Rika dismounts. "It's a good match. A fine one." She smiles at Samirah as the black horse walks towards her. "You're getting soft in your old age, little one." Rika rubs the space between Samirah's eyes and kisses her nose.

Samirah huffs. _They both need to get out more. That's all._

"So you say," Tiesen murmurs. He doesn't dismount, just sits there on Ajani, frowning.

Rika and Dean feel it then; they all do. Feathers fluttering in the air all around them, a faint glimpse of something pinkish white, barely seen.

_Pigeon,_ Samirah snarls.

The rider who steps out of thin air is tall, pale and thin almost to the point of being skeletal. He's dressed in all black similar to Gaelen's cassock and greatcoat. His mount is a tall dark bay.

_My back hurts. _The animal's head droops. _My feet hurt. _

Ajani rolls his eyes. _Well, well. Suhayl._

Dean turns to face him, and he knows instinctively that this is the Horseman who replaced him, the one who didn't work out. This is Andreas.

Andreas stares at Dean and his lip curls up as though he's smelling a gas leak. His pale grey eyes slide over Dean as he takes in the worn blue jeans, the grey tee shirt Dean wears. Dean knows that look, he's experienced it in small towns and cities all across the country:_ Vulgar, common trash. Not our kind, boy, move on. _

_Figures,_ Dean thinks to himself as he glares right back at the bastard. _You would be the one Horseman Uriel wouldn't kill with the Spear of Destiny._

"I've heard a lot about this one, this _Gaelen._" The name sounds like a curse coming out of that hard, thin mouth. Andreas' voice is deep, hollow. "Following him will lead to nothing but eternal death and ruin. You will all be destroyed in that Vegas place."

Andreas looks at Rika and his gaunt features soften. "I have come to save you from that, Rika."

* * *

Okay. Not my usual evil cliffie, I know. The next chapter will be posted on Wednesday.

BTW, SciFiNutTX, I was looking for another spot to put your "sour horseman" and his whiny horse in, so here they are. I haf plans for them....


	41. Chapter 41

_**A/N: **_This chapter is a long one, but I owe it to ya because I haven't updated in a while. Real Life truly sucks.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. Eric Kripke does. This is for entertainment and not profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 41 **_

Bobby sits on the stone steps in the courtyard. He skritches Rumsfeld2 underneath his chin, and the damn fool dog grins from ear to ear. They used to sit out in the yard like this sometimes, back when they had a home, place to call their own. Used to do it at night, underneath a full moon, like now.

He's been watching Nahele and Sam for the last hour or so. The intense look on Sam's face is almost comical. Kid always did think way too much. Dean always threw himself headfirst into whatever. Sam has to analyze everything. Dean and Samirah were made for each other. They're _soulmates_, for lack of a better word. Nahele and Sam aren't, but they're bound together through Samirah and Dean just the same. They just have to find their _own_ way. Sam doesn't seem to realize that for the last hour or so he hasn't said anything out loud. The horse nods in all the right conversational pauses. Bobby can't follow the entire conversation, but it's clear they're having one, equally clear that the conversation is two sided.

Sure enough, the moment comes when neither one has any more words to offer. Sam and Nahele have apparently come to a decision.

Waves of blue lightning fork over Nahele's wildly spotted coat. The tack and the saddle that appears on his body is blonde leather, sleek and new. Nagele wears it proudly. He lifts his head, stands perfectly still as Sam stares at him.

_Come on, kid,_ Bobby thinks to himself. _Come on…_

Sam takes the reins in one hand and swings into the saddle.

Nahele takes a few steps backwards, just enough to allow Sam to settle himself, and then the horse lunges forward, a blur of speed and power. They're gone in an instant, stretching out into the distance.

Sam whoops, wild and free and easy, and the sound makes Bobby smile. "Idjit."

* * *

Samirah walks forward, head up, ears pricked alertly. She ignores Andreas; she's really interested in Suhayl. The dark bay horse shudders all over when he sees her coming. Samirah's just discovered a new plaything.

Dean walks forward. His power blazes around him, copper and gold, bright and shifting. Worn brown work boots change into sleek black leather, faded blue jeans and purple t shirt fabric shift into smooth black cassock and leather greatcoat. He's back in black in less than a heartbeat. Andreas' eyes widen slightly, and the smile Dean aims at him is relaxed and easy, a wolfish grin that makes Tiesen sit up straighter in the saddle. Ajani pricks his ears.

An ass kicking is imminent, and they've got a ringside seat.

"Is this dick bothering you, little sister?" Dean drawls lazily.

Rika smiles warmly at Dean. "No. He's deluded." Actaeon whickers softly. Rika reaches up and gently strokes the side of her horse's neck.

Chale's big grey, Ishmael, has just come back from his run down the hillside. His ears are pinned back as well; his tail swishes back and forth angrily as he bares his teeth at Suhayl.

_You never did like me,_ the dark bay horse whines, and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard. Samirah stretches out her neck, tilts her head to one side as she stares at him. Suhayl shakes all over like a wobbly newborn foal. If he runs, Samirah will surely chase him down.

Andreas recovers his composure quickly enough. Those thin lips of his curve upwards smugly. He doesn't seem to realize or care that he's surrounded. Dean knows why, and that makes his right hand glow a little brighter.

Feathers rustle in the air overhead.

Damn overgrown pigeons. One, maybe more.

"All things, all beings must end. But not you, Rika. I've always been very fond of you," Andreas purrs. "Just think of the children that will result from our union."

If anything could break Dean's and Tiesen's game faces, that _could_, and _does_. Even the horses look horrified.

"You freakish sonofabitch," Dean snaps. "She's our _sister_!"

Rika looks bored. It's obvious this isn't the first time she's heard this. "I told you before, I never thought of you that way, Andreas. Leaving was your choice."

Andreas' handflap is just as limp as the rest of him. "Beings such as Zeus and myself don't pay attention to such minor details."

"I think you'd better go and apologize. I know Zeus, and you're not him." Tiesen leans forward in the saddle, taps his right temple with his finger. "Warped _and_ delusional. That's one hell of a combination you've got going for you, _brother_."

"You're small beings with small minds," Andreas arches an eyebrow at them and that smile of his is ice cold. "You wouldn't know greatness if it came up and bit you on the rear."

In his mind's eye Dean sees himself cover the distance between himself and Andreas in less than an eyeblink. Judging from the smirk on Tiesen's face Dean knows Tiesen sees it too.

"Bite this, bitch." Dean flexes the fingers of his right hand. He takes a step forward, and power rises up all around him. It's huge and familiar.

And it _isn't _his.

Everything fades away. Thick whitish blue fog hangs all around him.

"Damn," Dean whispers. Andreas and his whiny nag are gone. That's a plus, but Samirah and the others are gone too.

_Tiesen? Rika? _

No answer.

Dean puts his right arm up, extends his fingers. His hand's like a firefly in the fog, faint and flickering.

_Samirah?_

Still nothing.

Dean's heartbeat speeds up, fast and panicky. _Calm down, _Dean thinks to himself._ Get a friggin' grip. I can handle this. I can…_

A shadow rushes at him out of the haze. It's human-shaped, no features, just a silhouette. The sound it makes is shrill, screechy. The wind of its passage rustles his hair and clothing as the thing zips past him.

_Son of a bitch!_

Dean senses something else out there in the gloom. His heart thumps against his ribcage, hard and insistent, and whatever this is pulses right back. His eyes flare copper and gold.

_Samirah?_

Another shadow speeds by in the opposite direction. Same blurred motion, and that high pitched squeal sets Dean's teeth on edge.

He wants to touch it. Needs to kill it. The fingers of his right hand twitch. Samuel Colt's magic flares up, begging for release. All he has to do is reach out and touch this thing.

… _here... _

Dean steps out of the way at the last moment.

_I'm here._

Dean turns in the direction of the pulse.

He knows better, knows he shouldn't, but Dean closes his eyes.

There.

He sees copper brightness in the distance. Sensations, warm and familar, flow over him, through him. It's the faint creak of well-oiled saddle leather, the wind in his face, the feeling of freedom. Dean holds onto that feeling, sends it back into the fog, eyes narrowed, hoping, waiting.

...here…

Samirah walks out of the haze with her head up, ears pricked. _Miss me?_

_Nah, _Dean drawls lazily. _Not really. _

They're both lying, and they both know it.

There's a spring in her step and fire in her eyes. She's tacked up now, her bridle and saddle just as impossibly sleek and black as she is. Samirah walks behind Dean and grabs the back of his hood in her teeth. She jerks her head forward sharply and snorts as the hood falls over Dean's head.

"Hey!" Dean grumbles. "Quit it!" He pulls the hood back down around his shoulders. There's no heat behind the dirty look he gives her. Samirah waggles her head at him from side to side.

Another shadow dashes past them, and then another in the opposite direction. Samirah steps closer to Dean. She lays her ears back at the high pitched sound the things make.

"Easy," Dean whispers out loud. "Easy."

_Gonna stomp whoever did this, _Samirah grumbles inside Dean's head. She dances in place, anxious, eager to lash out in any direction. She won't, not until Dean does.

The air zips and hisses as several more things pass by in quick succession. Some are tall, some are short. Some are darker than others, but they're all human shaped. They all veer out of the way at the last moment, except for the last one. It's a queer looking thing, all hunched over. It heads straight for Dean, and Samirah's copper eyes flash dangerously as he kneels down in its path.

_What are you doing? Don't play with that thing---_

Dean wills Samuel Colt's magic to be still. He puts his right hand down on what seems to be the top of this thing's head and holds it in place.

The shadow surrounding the figure melts away.

It's a little blond girl. Couldn't be more than five years old. Red denim overalls, long pigtails. She bends over the handlebars of her tricycle, brow furled in concentration, feet furiously pumping the pedals.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters. Samirah snorts in surprise.

Dean lets go. The little girl zips right by. She doesn't even react to the sight of the Horseman and his horse.

The fog lifts everywhere.

It's a park somewhere. Springtime. Wrought iron and wooden benches, thick grass underfoot. The wind rustles thick green branches overhead. Samirah lifts her head and her nostrils flare. The place smells green, just like the outlands did, but the outlands were gloriously wild.

Humans bike, play ball, lounge on blankets all around them. Other kids run and laugh with pure joy. Dean watches them and his expression changes. His game face softens. They're full of themselves, they think they're the absolute center of their world. They don't know that shadows have teeth and safe and normal can be reduced to fine grey ash in a heartbeat.

"Hello, Gaelen!"

Dean and Samirah turn as one in the direction of the voice.

The woman sitting on the nearest park bench nearby can see them.

The sundress she has on is purple with red and yellow flowers splashed across the fabric. She's short, curvy, with wide grey eyes and a headful of gloriously wild, springy auburn curls. Dean rolls his eyes. He sees the brightness in the air all around her.

Her smile gets even wider. "Or would you prefer to be called Dean?"

Samirah snorts. She sees the brightness too. _Well. If it isn't the mother of all overgrown pigeons._

Dean stares at the woman. "Is this the part where we duke it out or something? I mean, I don't usually hit chicks, but I always said that if I ever met you face to face, I was gonna kick your ass."

The woman leans foward. "Do you _want_ to fight me?"

Dean shrugs. "I will if I have to."

God pats the bench beside her. "You've come a long way, young man. Would you prefer to sit?"

"We'll stand," Dean snaps. Samirah snorts in agreement as she walks up beside Dean. Samirah arches her neck like a warhorse as she paws the ground with her left foreleg. The grass blackens and burns underfoot.

God chuckles. "Suit yourself. I love your girl. She's so full of fire and spunk. And so are you."

"What do you want?" Dean says flatly.

"I know what you think of me. That I'm a right royal bitch, and I'm PMSing all the darn time."

"Yeah," Dean shrugs. "That pretty much covers it."

God stares at the scars around Dean's right eye. She stares at his glowing right hand. The smile on her face disappears, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful expression. "All this pain and sorrow doesn't seem worth it, does it?"

"My mom always told me that angels were watching over me." Dean snorts in derision. "Your guys did a piss poor job, lady."

"Things change, Gaelen. You of all people know that. That's why I'm leaving you in charge."

Dean feels the ground lurch sideways underneath his feet. "You're…what?"

"You have life and death in your grasp now. How you use them is up to you. This has been a long time coming." God looks at the humans around her and sighs contentedly. "As of now, I'm officially on vacation."

"Wh-what? You can't---I don't---" Dean sputters. "_Oh hell no!_ You can't put this on me. You can't _do_ that!"

"Sorry, kiddo, it's already been done. This has been in the works for the last five millennia at least. It's your destiny."

"Bullshit."

God spreads her hands wide. "It is what it is."

"I'm your unofficial babysitter now, is that it?"

"That's one way of putting it," God says mildly.

"So you're just gonna hop a cruise ship and leave all this behind, huh? You're on vacation, and your kids are running amok."

"It's up to you to see that they don't." God sighs. "The Bahamas are nice this time of year. I like the green, half wild places. I love sunny days and spring and summer."

Dean's hand creeps up the side of Samirah's neck, and the big black horse leans into his fingertips as he strokes her. They both need reassurance from each other. This isn't anything like what they expected.

"Those cloudy days, all that damn cold weather? That's your fault." Dean's voice sounds harsh, but God doesn't seem to notice or take offense.

"Well, I had to throw them in. For variety's sake, you know?" A red and yellow ball bounces onto the bench beside her. God laughs, picks the ball up and throws it back to the two small kids who come running after it.

"Hell no, no friggin' way. I'm not gonna do it." Samirah shakes her head just as Dean adds, "_We're _not gonna do it."

"Yes, you will. I couldn't ask any of my own kids to look after the place while I'm gone. Gabriel's still sulking about being my youngest, and please, don't get me started on Michael and Lucifer." God purses her lips. "I _could _leave Michael in charge. He's a good boy, very obedient. Not much imagination, though. Lucifer? I don't think so." God leans back against the park bench, raises her right hand in a handflap that Dean knows includes All There Is. "You care about all this, Dean. You're perfect for the job. You, your girl, and your brothers and sister. The Horsemen changed, and it's all because of you. You could have killed those humans when you first got here, but you didn't."

God smiles at Samirah, and the horse stares back defiantly. "Neither one of you did."

"That…that was a test?"

"Yes. You both passed with flying colors."

"So all I had to do was turn a few unsuspecting humans into crispy critters and we wouldn't be having this conversation, huh?"

"I do enjoy hearing you talk, Gaelen. _Dean._ You have a colorful way with words."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Un-freakin'-believable. You _do _realize I ganked one of your pigeons. That Zachariah?"

God shrugs carelessly. "All according to plan."

"What?"

"I trust you both, even if you don't trust yourselves. You're not going to stand idly by and watch things go to hell. You and I both know that."

"Am I that damn obvious?"

Samirah snorts and nods briskly. Dean glares at her with mock anger.

_What? You are._

"I trust you to make the right decision," God says simply.

Dean stares down at his right hand. When he rubs his fingertips together sparks of pale golden light fill the air. He remembers the days he spent at Bobby's place, drunk most of the time once they'd weaned him off the painkillers. He remembers reaching for things with his missing right hand, feeling angered and confused because he could still feel his fingers. Dean remembers the sleepless nights, the way he woke up screaming when he finally could go to sleep. Anger rises up inside him, fills him almost to the top, but he won't say no. He won't let things go bad, not if he can help it. He can't.

He looks around at the kids, the families playing in the park. No one even looks in their direction, and they'd probably run screaming if they ever _really_ saw him. He had normal once, back in Lawrence, and he just can't bring himself to deny that to anyone else.

Dean shakes his head. "Lady," he rumbles, "this is the most half-assed plan I've ever heard."

God shrugs. "Well, they can't all be Shakespeare, boyo."

"Now what? This the part where you tell me to behave myself?"

"Behave yourself? Now where's the fun in _that_?" God rolls her eyes. "Are you talking about Andreas? If you want to lay him out, feel free."

The air around Dean and Samirah twangs, as though a gigantic rubber band has been released. Reality expands, and then snaps back into place. They're back in the wildlands again, only this time Dean finds himself nose to nose with Andreas. The other Horseman startles. He steps back, and Dean steps into him again.

Andreas' pale grey eyes widen comically.

Dean's right hand curls into a fist. All that pent up anger and frustration has to go somewhere, and hell, a good idea is a good idea. Dean's hand flares golden as he lets Samuel Colt's magic out, just a little bit, not to kill, just to sting, one hell of a lot. His power courses through his muscles, and letting loose like this, even a little bit, feels so damned good. The sound of his knuckles smashing into Andreas' thin, drawn features makes Dean smile.

Andreas goes airborne, the heels of his boots easily clearing the ground by a good four feet.

"Hey! You can't do that!" Suhayl whines.

Dean turns. All he can think about is _Blazing Saddles _and Alex Karras as Mongo. Suhayl's head rocks back as Dean's fist smashes into the horse's jaw. All four feet leave the ground. Suhayl and Andreas hang in the air together, limp, and they hit the ground at the same time.

The earth shakes. The giant birds in the next valley rise up into the sky, agitated. Tiesen laughs so hard he nearly falls out of his saddle. Rika tries to act dignified, but it's a battle she loses after a second or too. She leans onto Actaeon for support as her shoulders shake with laughter.

Dean smirks.

Ajani, Ishmael and Actaeon whinny and stomp their feet in place, obviously pleased.

Samirah looks pissed. Her ears are pinned flat against her head. _Well. Looks like someone doesn't know how to share. I wanted to kick Whiny's ass._

The smile Dean gives her is somewhat cheesy. _Sorry._

_Hmph. _

"Okay…all right…" Tiesen gasps. He wipes a few tears from his eyes. "That was well worth the wait. Where'd you two go?"

"You saw that?"

Rika smirks. "We all saw it, Gaelen."

Actaeon cocks her head to one side. She buck jumps in place. Her hind legs lash out and catch something fluttering in the air behind her. The kick's a solid one, a direct hit that propels whatever this is backwards at high speed.

_Damn. _Samirah mutters. _Not again._

The unidentified flying object becomes visible and identifiable soon enough. There's pink flab, rolls of it, short dark curly hair, and a wide, totally bare ass. Small white wings hang limp and useless from the shoulders.

The angel slams spreadeagled into the rock wall on the other side of the valley, hard enough to shear part of the rock face off. Boulders and rocks fly into the air. The figure slides slowly down the face of the cliff with an audible squelching sound and after a few moments disappears past the treetops in the valley below.

"Huh," Dean mutters to himself. "Looks like a snow angel." He turns and swings up into the saddle as Samirah walks up beside him. Best to get the hell out of Rika's way. Samirah moves off; she stops next to Ajani and Tiesen.

"_A cupid?"_ Rika's eyes narrow dangerously, then flare new penny bright as she swings around to glare at Andreas. "You tried to use a _cupid _on me?"

Rika's rage makes her grow taller, but it's a sure bet that Andreas won't get off lucky like Sam did. Andreas struggles up onto his elbows. His head wobbles like a broken bobblehead doll. Suhayl's still out cold, but the horse never was a factor anyway. Rika leans down, fists Andreas by the greatcoat and yanks him up on his feet.

Dean shivers. There's a chill in the air. His head throbs, so deep and heavy it feels like his skull's about to burst_._ He feels it then, the burning sting of pain as ropes wrap around his arms and legs. He blinks confused, as he looks down at himself. There's nothing there, but he can still see it, ghostlike, overlaid over his own black clad body.

_Not me,_ he thinks dully to himself. _Not me..._

The scene shifts.

_Sam?_ Dean whispers.

_No._ Samirah backs up. She shakes her head angrily from side to side. Her eyes widen as the sting of a whip lashes her across her neck. _Nahele, my son…_

Another stroke of the whip and the ropes and both horse and rider shudder with the impact.

It's a vision, one that rises up all around them. Dean sees Sam and Nahele, surrounded by men. Sam gestures with his free hand, and the ropes split and break apart. Nahele rears up, lashes out with his forelegs at the attackers. They're not anywhere Dean recognizes. It looks like a town, some dusty little hole in the wall somewhere.

Some of the humans in the crowd have black eyes.

"Gaelen ---"

Dean ignores Tiesen. All he can think of is Sam needs him.

"Samirah, wait---"

Samirah ignores Tiesen. All she can think of is Nahele needs her.

A streak of black lightning in the distance, and horse and rider are gone.

* * *

Tiesen recognizes the look. He hasn't seen Dean or Samirah look that way since the old times, when whole countries died. They're rageful, powerful and eternal, but that was business. This is personal.

Death rides a black horse tonight, and God help whoever gets in their way.

* * *

Next post Saturday.


	42. Chapter 42

_**A/N:**_ Well it's Saturday. Limited internet access sucks, but it beats a blank.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 42**_

_**Desolation, Arizona**_

"You comfy? Can I get you anything? Banana daiquiri? Shrimp cocktail? A pound of virgin flesh? Anything?" Crowley purrs. "Just name it."

Alastair taps his fingers against the arms of his overstuffed easy chair. The nail polish on his vessel's nails is pink. The flowers on the upholstery fabric are pink. Blindingly, overwhelmingly _pink_.

Right now Alastair hates the color pink with a hellishly cold passion.

Bastardized Latin rises into the air around them, over and over again. Witches in every single room of the house chant loudly, as do the ones sitting in the yard around the house. Usually Alastair enjoys the sound of chanting. _This_ time it gives him a headache.

Maybe it's the skin he's in.

"I'm fine, thanks," Alastair says stiffly. Crowley notices the tone and smiles a little.

Alastair's current vessel is Alice Parker. She perfectly fits the stereotype of the Waltons' sweet looking, silver haired grandmother, even down to the string of pearls around her neck and that nauseatingly cheerful pink sweater and matching dress she wears. Dear old Alice is the mayor's mother, and she was a willing vessel, which annoys Alastair to no end. He preferred taking his vessels by force.

That was another thing that Alastair hated Crowley for. Bastard could sell ice to Eskimos.

Damn show off.

He never liked Crowley, and they both knew that, but Alastair was summoned, so he came. It was best not to let his ego get in the way, a good way to show Hell that he's was a team player.

"Well, you just let me know, okay?" Crowley rubbed his hands together. He tilted his head back as he listened to the chanting that rose up all around them. "We aim to please around here, you know."

_Witches. Hmph._ Alastair never did have a very high opinion of them. Out of all the contractors and dupes Hell used, witches were usually the most unreliable. Heavy hitters like Marie Laveau or Circe were honored and revered, but this current crop of bored soccer moms and know-it-all college students was a cheap source of labor, easily replaced if something went wrong.

Things usually went wrong. It was a dirty little secret in the industry. Crowley was known for going through humans and witches the way a human with a bad cold used Kleenex, but that still didn't stop the dumb bastards from lining up and seeking him out.

Alastair glances at the far wall of the living room. It's a scrying wall, the latest thing in occult communication. The wall looks like a gigantic plasma screen tv. It's a pretty impressive effect, with split screens showing scenes of that Sam Winchester being pursued through the town on that horse of his. Humans scurry around trying to block Winchester's path, with trucks and makeshift roadblocks, and the boy and his horse are still pretty agile on their feet, despite Crowley's witchery.

Alastair watches, and all he can think of his that he'll need two more racks, one for Sam Winchester, and another for that spotted horse of his.

He watches as they head out of town now. The scene switches to an aerial view, with police cars and civilian cars and trucks in hot pursuit. The other half of the screen shows the wide expanse of road at the opposite end of town. The afternoon sky darkens, lit up intermittently with flashes of lightning. A storm front's rolling in, and at the head of it rides Dean Winchester on his big black horse.

The witches' chanting doubles in sound and strength.

Crowley glances at the big screen and fairly cackles. "That's it. Come on in, big boys."

"It's a girl," Alastair says mildly.

"What?"

"I said, that black horse is a mare. The spotted one is her son."

"I know that!" Crowley snaps. The sideways glance he aims at Alastair is sharp enough to cut. "And exactly _what_ does _that _have to do with anything?"

Alastair shrugs. "Just a minor detail. That's all."

"You'd love to see me fail at this, wouldn't you?"

Alastair moves the muscles of Alice's face into a smile that would make a great white shark proud: too wide, too many teeth in that mouth. "Well…yes."

The pissed off look on Crowley's face, sudden and sharp, pleases Alastair even more. "See? It's out in the open, then. I'm surprised you admitted it. It's not going to happen, you hear me? I'm too big to fail."

Alastair's smile stretches even wider. "We'll see."

* * *

Nahele runs full out, and Sam knows something is terribly wrong.

They should be been able to leave this place, as easily as they had everywhere else during their extended run. They can't. Sam's eardrums throb with this low murmur that echoes darkly between his ears, and he knows Nahele can hear it too. When the townspeople surrounded them, tried to pull them down, Sam broke the ropes with a thought and a gesture. Nahele summoned lightning. He pushed them back with that, lashed out at them with his teeth and his hooves. The ground cracked and broke underneath his hooves as he raged at them, and that wasn't enough, either.

They were being suppressed, and now they're being herded.

They ran through the town, and Sam could see darkness on the faces of the adults as he rode past. They knew. They knew who and what he and Nahele were, and why they were being chased like that. Sam could see the light inside the kids, playing on the sidewalks, the kids on the buses and in the schoolyards. They were still pure and innocent, wondering what was going on as he and Nahele streaked past.

Sam's body still aches from the ropes they tried to bind him with. Nahele shares his pain too, a low dull ache that makes it hard to move. They both feel like lying down, accepting this, but they don't.

They run. They have to. Sooner or later Sam knows they'll have to stand and fight. Cars and trucks behind them, and in the distance Sam sees more people, more vehicles. Sam thinks about telling Nahele to leave him, but he knows the horse won't. They'll stand together, and probably die together.

Sam leans forward in the saddle. Nahele has his head, doesn't need any more urging as he reaches out with his right lead. He runs easily, effortlessly, but the effort is costing him. Sam can tell.

The afternoon sky overhead flashes with lightning.

_Mother,_ Nahele whispers.

Thunder rolls, booms out over the land in a low threatening growl that's very familiar.

_Dean,_ Sam thinks.

* * *

Sheriff Joe Cook steps on the brakes. Hard. His cruiser fishtails wildly, kicks up a cloud of loose gravel on the road as it skids forward sideways. Cook is only vaguely aware of the jolt he gets from behind as one of the other cruisers bangs into him from behind. He's transfixed by the scene before him. On the road up ahead the spotted horse skids to a stop and the young man's head whips around to the side. The kid looks just as startled as Cook feels.

The black horse and rider standing in the middle of the road don't seem to notice. Or care.

The sky overhead darkens. Lightning pulses in the clouds.

The horse is black. Arabian by the look of it, although Cook's never seen an Arabian horse that big before. This sumbitch is huge. Those reddish copper eyes regard Cook and the cars behind him with a steady, baneful stare. The rider sits with his head lowered, the face cast in shadow by that large full hood around his shoulders.

Cook hadn't minded making the deal. None of them had at the time, and maybe they _should_ have. Crowley had been _so_ persuasive. The town needed it, the town was dying, inch by inch. Seeing some of the townspeople give themselves over to those coils of black smoke hadn't bothered them either. Heaven hadn't listened to their prayers; it was nice that someone had.

Right now Cook realizes that maybe he and the others on the town council should have wondered, _really_ wondered, what Crowley was.

And what _else _would follow him here.

The rider slowly raises his head. Cook sees wide green eyes, fine thin scarring around the right eye. The face is beautiful, for a man, freckled skin, full lips, and for a moment Cook thinks of the Sunday school classes he used to take, remembers old Reverend Hathaway talking about God's most beautiful angel.

Lucifer.

_Not Lucifer,_ Cook thinks. _Death. This dude is Death._

Lightning and thunder splits the sky overhead. That pale freckled skin is gone in an eyeblink. There's the skull underneath, bleached bone, grinning wolfishly. Those wide green eyes flash, pale gold and copper.

Cook screams, loud and long.

* * *

"Here we go," Crowley smiles.

Alastair makes Alice rolls her eyes.

"The best plans are the simplest ones. No need for that sod Abaddon to make an appearance. We don't need any huge showy spectacle in Vegas. _Just this. _You threaten baby brother and his little pony, and big bro and momma will come running. _Voila! Instant massacre._ Dean Winchester and that horse of his will kill everything living here to protect little Sammy. Innocent blood spilled, and the Apocalypse is started. Lucifer and the others don't care how it gets started. _Just git er done_!"

Crowley laughs, and the sound makes Alastair's jaw clench.

* * *

The air vibrates. The ground shakes, as an enormous pulse of copper energy bursts outward from Dean and Samirah. Sam feels his eardrums contract, almost painfully, as the pulse spreads outward. It floods over the road, behind and in front of him. The cars and trucks bounce once, hard, and then they're airborne, tumbling and twisting in the air in a terrible slow motion. The air is filled with vehicles and loose gear, baseball bats, ropes, guns and people who were on foot when the shockwave hit.

"Dean? Dean!"

Samirah turns on a dime and walks calmly towards Sam and Nahele. Ears pricked alertly, her sleek black coat absorbs all light around her. She carries her long flowing tail proudly, like a flag. Samirah walks around Nahele and Sam in a close circle. Her glowing red hooves fuse the loose gravel into a solid mass.

Dean sits relaxed and easy in the saddle. He holds the reins loosely in his gloved left hand, and Sam can't tell if that's Gaelen or the result of John Winchester teaching his boys to be ambidextrous. Dean's hood is up, his face framed by deep black shadow. Aside from his eyes and his skin the only other color is that pale firefly flicker of his right hand. Dean's eyes are multicolored, moss green, pale cold and copper. He recognizes Sam, sure enough, but that doesn't make Sam feel any better. Gaelen's out, and so is Dean; they're eternal, powerful. That strangely serene look on Dean's face scares the hell out of Sam.

_My God,_ Sam thinks, _he doesn't look human anymore._

Nahele turns in a circle, in order to keep sight of Dean and Samirah.

"Dean?"

_Mother,_ Nahele nickers softly.

_All of these humans. _Samirah stamps her forelegs hard against the ground. She tosses her head._ They need to be taught a lesson. _

Dean nods in silent agreement.

"Dean, listen to me. I'm okay, all right?" Sam knows that's a lie. He aches all over. Nahele stumbles a little as he turns.

Dean shakes his head. "They hurt you. I felt it. _We_ felt it." Samirah nods in agreement.

_Mother, I'm all right._

"Dean? Dean!" Sam gently nudges Nahele in his right side. Nahele nods. He steps in closer to Samirah. Sam reaches out, puts his hand around the left bicep of Dean's black greatcoat. Sam tightens his grip as Dean's power snaps and sparks underneath his fingertips. Touching Dean when Dean didn't want to be touched was always a risky proposition. Sam feels the power surging underneath the black leather and fabric, bright and hot as the noonday sun.

The glow in Dean's eyes flares up bright and hot. Samirah has the same look in her eyes, wild, intense, even as Nahele slowly stretches his neck out and gently bumps the side of his mother's neck with his nose.

"_They've already taken too much from us, Sam. Mom. Dad."_ Dean's voice vibrates with power in the too quiet afternoon air. It's as though the earth is shocked by his presence and is hanging onto his every word. _"They tried to kill you and Nahele."_

Samirah backs up, and Sam lets go of Dean's arm. Samirah resumes circling. Nahele turns to keep her and Dean in sight. _"It stops now. They need to know that. We need to show them."_

"Dean, we're okay. You don't have to kill these people."

"_Yes. Yes we do."_

"I'm okay. We're okay." Sam watches as a pick-up truck slowly tumbles end over end in the air nearby. The occupants, a man and a woman, sit strapped in their seats, wide-eyed with fear.

Their eyes look normal, light grey and blue. A few feet away a man dressed in olive drab fatigue gear floats aimlessly, head over heels. His eyes are shiny, black as pitch.

Everything stops, frozen in midair, and Sam knows it's only the calm before the storm.

"You can't kill these people, you hear me? You can't. Dean? Samirah?"

_Mother, please…_ Nahele snorts and dances in place.

"We need to do this together, Dean. We do this together, we can keep each other human. Watch out for each other. You gonna just throw everything away like this? You gonna just kill innocent humans?"

_"They're not innocent,"_ Dean says simply, as though _that_ was an absolute fact.

Samirah pins her ears back against her head, as though she's tired of the sound of Sam's voice. Dean's face is unreadable. The air around him glows black.

"You trusted me with your son," Sam says quickly to the horse. "You trusted me, and I respect that. I'm honored by it. Trust goes both ways. You're better than this, I know you both are. Remember, Samirah? You told me that those damn angels only showed me the bloody bits. You told me that there was much more to you both than that. I believe you. Please, you gotta believe me now," Sam shakes his head. "Don't do this. We're okay. We're fine."

Dean blinks. He stares at Sam, as though he sees him, really sees him this time. Sam sees it now, knows that Dean's back. Dean looks human now, not _Othe_r.

Dean blinks.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah. It's me. I'm here. Don't do this." Nahele rumbles wordlessly as he shakes his head _yes_. "We're fine, we're okay…"

Samirah stretches her neck out, softly nuzzles Nahele's spotted jaw with those soft, flexible lips of hers.

"All right," Dean whispers softly. "All right." His hand goes up to the edge of his hood. He tugs it down around his shoulders, and his fingers shake a little. He looks human now, tired.

_I reached him,_ Sam thinks to himself._ I got through._

In the next moment Dean's eyes blaze copper. Samirah whinnies softly. Her eyes blaze too.

Something vast and unseen builds up in the air all around them. It prickles Sam's skin. Nahele flicks his ears back and forth, startled into attentiveness.

The cars, trucks and people start moving again, impossibly slow turns in mid-air. Sam watches as the cars and trucks rotate, right side up. The people who were caught out in the open tilt upright, feet to the ground.

"Dean?" Sam whispers.

"It's okay, Sam. It is. Really."

_Mother?_

_Hush now, Nahele. _

The black eyed possessed ones stare fearfully, and in the next instant Sam realizes why they look so terrified. Dense black smoke curls out of their eyes, their noses, the pores of their skin. Reddish copper embers of bright fire pulls the smoke up into the air over their heads, spiraling into a thick funnel shape. The storm clouds overhead fade out into bright blue sky. Sunlight catches the brightness, and the black smoke curls and fades into the air, whitish grey, dead.

Almost immediately, the cars, trucks and people fall to the ground. Everything bounces once. Hard.

"Dean?"

"What?" Dean shrugs in response to the questioning look Sam gives him. "Hey, they'll live."

* * *

Crowley stares at the scrying wall in disbelief. "He can't…she can't…they were supposed to….they can't _do_ that!"

"Fail," Alastair purrs. "Epic fail."

The witches fall silent all around. Alastair knows it then, recognizes the very thing that makes Crowley successful also makes him weak. Crowley's too attached to material things, like his vessel.

Alastair feels the massive buildup of power surging towards them.

Time to go.

Alice the vessel stretches her mouth wide open. Alastair surges out, dense black and boiling. He dives down underneath the ground just as the scrying wall blazes with a bright copper light.

* * *

Crowley blinks. He can't see at first. He can't move. He can't feel the ground underneath his feet. That gentle breeze flowing over his skin tells him that things have changed big time.

Big time, and definitely for the worst. For him.

Dean Winchester's right hand closes comfortably around the soft underside of Crowley's jaw. Pale golden sparks fly up into the air. It stings like hell, and judging by the hard look in Winchester's eyes, that's only the beginning.

All around them the townspeople stagger over to watch.

_Damn. Damn! _Crowley paws uselessly at the fingers around his throat for a few seconds or so, then he stills himself. He can turn this around. It's salvageable.

Time to start talking, see how persuasive he really can be.

Crowley nods his head at the humans around them. "This wasn't personal, boychick. It's just business. The good people of this town made a deal with me. In exchange for their help with your brother there, they get that big new mall built down the road. Prosperity for all. It's my own stimulus package." Crowley shrugs carelessly, like it's all no big deal. "They just wanted the good life."

The huge black horse snorts, then moves closer, eyes blazing. She looks like she thinks stomping the hell out of Crowley would be a damn fine idea. The younger Winchester brother stands patiently between the two horses, his spotted horse quietly chewing on the cuff of his rider's sleeve.

Dean Winchester quirks an eyebrow at him. His grip around Crowley's throat doesn't loosen.

"They failed, just like I knew they would," Crowley says.

Some of the people in the crowd murmur angrily.

"You should thank me for showing you what animals they really are. Now I ask you, are these really the kind of humans you want to protect? They'd stab you in the back just as soon as look at you. You know it. And they do too."

Dean's eyes spark copper in response, as though he's responding to Crowley's words.

More angry murmurs from the crowd.

Crowley senses a shift in the Horseman's mood. "You could do the right thing, kiddo. Wipe the slate clean."

Dean's grip loosens a little, and that makes the demon grin a little. "You can start over. Destroy this pitiful excuse of a town. Get rid of these treacherous sacks of meat and do it right next time. The only good human is a dead one."

There's a moment when Crowley thinks he's won. A moment when he actually believes that the Horseman is going to release him, that all will be forgiven.

That moment passes. Dean smirks, and the cockiness in that expression makes Crowley's gut clench up.

"Last time I checked," Dean growls softly, "stupid isn't a good enough reason for the death penalty. And anyway, sport, they never would have done this if it hadn't been for you."

The fingers tighten up again.

"Oh." Crowley hisses as an unpleasant prickly sensation washes over him, from head to toe. He feels weak. The fingers around his throat loosen. Dean Winchester steps back, and Crowley face-plants hard into the ground. The demon lifts his head, spits out the grass and dirt in his mouth.

The mob stands all around him in a circle, and the vibes Crowley's getting from them is not good.

Sam Winchester swings into the saddle of his horse. The big black horse walks towards her rider, and Crowley could swear the nag is laughing at him.

" 'm…'m…b-bug-g-gered," Crowley chokes out.

Dean smiles wicked bright as he mounts up, turns his horse away from the crowd. "Yep. Pretty much."

* * *

Crowley yells out "Not the face, mate, not the face!" moments later.

It sounds like the crowd is enjoying their work.

Dean shakes his head when Sam tries to turn in the saddle. "Don't look back, Sammy. Don't look back."

They ride along in silence for several more moments.

"So what do you think?" Sam asks quietly. "Think they'll do right this time?"

Dean shrugs. "I dunno. I'll keep an eye on this place. See what happens next."

Samirah bumps up against Nahele and whickers softly. Nahele bumps her back.

Dean looks down at the ground. When he lifts his head again the tension in his face smoothes out. His black clothes fade into worn brown leather and faded denim. "Thanks."

Sam does a convincing job of looking completely clueless. "Thanks for what?"

"For talking us down. Thanks for reminding me."

"Oh. This couldn't be a chick flick moment we're having now, is it?"

"Right now?" Dean scoffs. "Oh hell no."

"Didn't think so."

"Damn right it isn't."

Samirah lengthens her stride. Nahele picks up the pace as he runs beside her. They run head to head now, and Sam wonders why he ever was afraid of this. Things might go to hell in a handbasket later on, and considering Winchester luck that's probably very likely. For now it's just the blue sky above and the green grass below, the wind in their faces and that feeling of freedom they never allowed themselves to really feel before.

_Run now_, Samirah rumbles inside their heads. _Talk later. _

Dean laughs, a low growl of delighted laughter. He sounds young again. "You heard the lady, Sammy. Race you home."

* * *

Next chapter to be posted next week.


	43. Chapter 43

_**A/N: **_Dean first fought Abaddon in Chapter 27. Thank you, SciFINutTX!

* * *

_**Chapter 43**_

Chale kisses Ellen on the cheek. She smiles lazily, snuggles next to him even closer in bed. Hugging him is like hugging a mountain.

_My God,_ _he's solid muscle. Should have killed me._ Ellen thinks. Chale was surprisingly gentle, considerate and thoughtful. He definitely made her toes curl.

_If the folks at the Roadhouse could see me now…. _

"Thought you wanted to wait until after I wooed you," Chale murmurs softly.

"Wait? Nope," Ellen drawls sleepily. She lazily traces her fingertips over the planes of Chale's chest muscles. "You still owe me some wooing, though. A lot of it, buddy boy."

Chale rumbles laughter.

* * *

_Not bad. Not bad at all. _

Clothed in Lillith's skin, the vair lopin parasite stands naked in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom. It's not the first time it has ever used another's body, but it is the first time in such a powerful one. There's only a little bit of Lillith left now, small and insignificant. Lillith's blue skin tingles with power. She's hairless now, just stepped out of the sixth infant blood bath her attendants made her take. Her skin was horribly dry and cracked, and she really hadn't eaten much these last few days.

It was a grand make-over. Her skin is sleek and smooth again, but it's up to the vair lopin to do the rest.

Lillith's stolen skin fades to olive tan, and curly red hair explodes from her scalp. The vair lopin frowns, shakes her head. No. Peach colored skin next, shiny black hair that falls in a curtain down to her waist. No.

She changes with every breath, every heartbeat, green eyes, light grey, dark brown hair, whitish-blond hair, slides through the spectrum of nearly every skin color and body type known to mankind.

Finally. _There._

Everything is so smooth and pink and downright perky now. She has long legs and curves again. Her hair is long, thick and blonde this time, bright as the sun. She looks better than she did before.

_Dean will like this. He won't be mad at me anymore. He'll love me again. You'll see. _

The vair lopin blinks in confusion. What the hell? It doesn't give a damn about Dean Winchester.

That was an echo, some stray, random thought. That's all.

_I feel pretty,_ the parasite thinks. She raises Lillith's arms, twirls around in place and breaks into song.

* * *

Hours later, the courtyard is suddenly filled with laughter and salt water spray, just as the sun appears over the horizon.

Ishmael, the big grey horse, appears first. He buck jumps for the pure joy of it. The other Horsemen appear out of thin air, Rika and Tiesen first, with Sam and Dean bringing up the rear. All four Horsemen dismount, and as they do all four horses' coats shimmer as saddles and bridles disappear into thin air.

Nahele dances sideways, still excited from his extended run.

"You know, maybe we shouldn't have done that," Sam says. "I mean, those people on that cruise ship had cameras. They saw us ride by." He looks stunned.

"Aw come on, did you see the looks on their faces?" Dean fingers the thick strand of seaweed in his hands. "That was sweet! Heck with 'em if they can't take a joke. We probably made YouTube."

He laughs as Samirah turns, stretches out her neck, pulls the seaweed out of his hands and trots off with her tail held high, waving the plant like a flag. Nahele trails his mother, ears pricked, curious. Ajani follows with his ears pinned flat against his head. Actaeon brings up the rear, peaceful as always. Ishmael runs along the side of the courtyard wall, then comes back, curious to see what the others are up to.

Tiesen shrugs. "You'd think they never saw horses run on water before. Last time we ran all out like that was six millennia ago. At least."

A frown creases Rika's delicate features."That's too long. We should do that more often." She runs her slim fingers over the delicate peach colored seashell in the palm of her hand.

Dean turns to watch Samirah as the other horses gather around her. Ajani tries to snatch the seaweed away and Samirah backs up, snorting, her ears twitching back and forth. There's no real hostility there; she's just playing. They all are.

There wasn't time on the ride back to really discuss what had happened. That wasn't only Gaelen back there, eternal and powerful, that was Dean too, and Sam knows he's seen that aspect of Dean his entire life, ferocious, protective and oh so familiar. Sam's just curious. Now's as good a time as any for a chick flick moment.

"So," Sam drawls, and that casual, unconcerned tone of his is perfect. "You were gonna go all wrath of God on their asses, huh? How'd that feel?"

Dean blows out a breath, apparently hoping against hope that Sam wouldn't ask about his damn feelings.

"Well, yeah, about that." Dean's expression goes momentarily blank as he rubs the back of his neck with the palm of his hand. "Uh, I need to talk to you guys about something."

The atmosphere in the courtyard changes, quicksilver smooth and fast, from playful to serious. The only one unaffected is Samirah. That sparkle in her eyes belies the disappointed tone in her thought voice. _Huh. I wanted to tell about the overgrown pigeon mother._

Tiesen's eyes go to slits. "Overgrown pigeon mother?"

Samirah nods sagely. _Yep. And the part about sitting on babies._

Nahele, Actaeon, Ishmael and Ajani look puzzled.

Dean puts his hand on his face, closes his eyes. _Uh, Samirah?_

_Yesss?_ They can all hear the laughter in her voice.

_Geez_…

_What's the matter, Wil-bur?_

"What overgrown pigeon?" Rika asks quietly.

"Uh…"

"Dean?" Sam says warily.

"About time you made it back," Chale mock grumbles. The rest of the horsemen and the horses turn towards the porch just as he and Ellen walk out onto the porch.

Bobby and Rumsfeld2 come out moments later.

Rumsfeld2's dark eyes light up at the sight of the horses, especially Samirah. He pads down the stone steps and walks right up to her. Samirah nickers softly in greeting, lowers her head so the dog can sniff at the strand of seaweed.

Ellen looks totally relaxed as she leans against Chale. "Got something I need to talk to you about, Dean."

_Good._ The longer he can delay telling everyone about that "God's babysitter" crap, the better. Judging by that mischievous sparkle in Samirah's eyes, he doesn't have long anyway.

"Ladies first," Dean sighs.

"Nope," Ellen grins, bright and cheerful. "I think your news beats mine. You first, Dean."

_Damn._

* * *

Abbadon stirs restlessly in the pit. He folds his massive leathery wings around himself even tighter, squeezes his eyes shut. The street sounds filter down to him through the darkness. The walls of the cavern tremble with the faint rumble of cars, trucks and buses. The sounds of construction that vibrate through the pit would drive him mad if he allowed it, and occasionally he hears human voices, distant, high pitched and screechy.

He remembers a time when there was blessed silence, but he can't remember exactly when.

Humans breathe and live in the space above his head. It's gone on long enough, and he wants it to stop. There wouldn't be so many damn humans in the world if those damn horsemen would just do their damn job.

One damn horseman in particular. A slight frown flows across Abaddon's massive pale face like oil over water. In his mind's eye he sees this Death. Gaelen. Death. Dean Winchester. Such a beautiful creature, moss green eyes alight with defiance the last time Abaddon saw him.

The Fallen can always break off a small piece of himself, send it up into the world to create a little death, a little mischief. That amuses Abaddon sometimes. Sometimes it's good to have an advance scout, a way to suss out the enemy. The seal above the cavern is not as strong as Lucifer and the others think.

Abaddon has no wish to correct that impression. Not yet, anyway.

Slaughtering that herd of horses was fun, a good way to get the Horseman's attention. Hurting Winchester, spiking him, was even better. That allowed the Fallen to taste him. Mingled energies inside that sturdy frame, copper and gold and green, swirling and unique, made Abaddon's mouth water back in the pit. He tasted Death, heady and full-bodied, but there was also Life, awful, warm and disgusting.

This _Gaelen_, this _Dean _cares for the flesh, which was exactly the reason that bitch God choose him in the first place. That's not what Death should be about. Death is an end, The End of All There Is for flesh. Abaddon watched through the eyes of his fragment as Dean Winchester killed it. The Horseman would rather strike down his fellow eternals, rather than do his job and harvest Life. Until recently he was ignorant of what was inside him; even thought the angels brought the horses back to life. He didn't realize the Abaddon he fought was a fragment, either.

The boy was an abomination, something that shouldn't exist in the first place.

Things aren't going to proceed according to Hell's plan.

Abaddon knows that. It won't be long now.

* * *

Bobby sits on the porch railing and rumbles laughter. "So. You're God's babysitter now, huh? There's never a dull moment with you Winchesters."

Dean's the center of attention now, with everyone ranged around him in a loose circle. It's not the kind of attention he normally craves. He rolls his eyes, sticks both hands into this jeans pockets and stares down at his boots. "It's not funny, Bobby."

"Hell it isn't. You get the last popsicle in the freezer, is that it?"

Sam snickers a little. Dean swings around to glare at him and Sam's laughter chokes and sputters to a stop. "Well, it's a little funny," Sam mutters. He grins cheesily at his brother and Dean's glare only deepens.

Tiesen leans against the stone wall of the courtyard with his arms crossed over his chest. The look on his face is thoughtful; Chale and Rika mirror the look. The horses stand attentively in a group, their ears alternately pricked and twitching back and forth, while Rumsfeld2 stretches out on the ground. He's not the least bit interested in anything that's being said.

"He's right, you know. Never a dull moment when you're around." Tiesen nods at Bobby. "But then again, that's the way it always has been."

"So what are you saying, Tiesen?"

"Things change, little brother," Tiesen rumbles. "So will we."

Rika nods. Actaeon moves in close to her rider, idly lips at Rika's fingertips. She smiles as she strokes the horse's neck, and in that moment Rika looks like a young girl, fresh-faced and bright, not eternal.

"What the hell," Chale's grin is boyish and somewhat bashful as he eyes Ellen. "I like change."

"Okay. My turn." Ellen says quietly. "I've got to go."

Dean looks startled. "Go? Go _where_?"

"Home. The Roadhouse. I'm going home. Bobby's coming with me."

Dean's face goes carefully blank. _Bobby doesn't have a home anymore. Because of me._

"Don't start that again, boy," Bobby huffs. "You owe me, but you don't have to get all girly about it."

"Uh, Ellen?" Sam says slowly. 'The Apocalypse is starting in twelve hours, maybe twenty four. You run _from _it if you can, not _to_ it."

"Well, duh. Nobody likes a smartass, Sam." Ellen ignores Sam, turns her full attention on Dean. "Ash and Jo have probably run the Roadhouse into the ground by now. I need to get back."

"Well, uh, they can come here. Sam can stay with them."

Sam's bitchface comes out, sudden and fierce. "Dean!"

Dean shrugs. "You got a better idea, Sam?"

"That's sweet, kiddo, but no."

"What?" Dean looks like someone just stepped on his puppy.

"Whatever happens is gonna happen." Ellen gently touches the side of Dean's face with her hand. "I've got faith in you. In all of you. You get out there and do your job. That'll be enough. More than enough."

"That's it?" Dean grumbles. "That's your pep talk? That's all you got?"

Ellen shrugs. "Other than that I got nothing."

* * *

The house is quiet for once, and Dean recognizes the feeling in the air. It's the calm before the storm.

Dean stands in front of the same mirror, in the very same upstairs room Gaelen stood in when he first came to the safe house.

_Deja freakin' vu._

He stares at himself in the mirror, and he knows that this has happened before, when Gaelen was driving, and Dean slept, fitful and restless, submerged deep inside his own skin.

_Our skin,_ Dean corrects himself.

He's bare-chested now, wearing sleek black pants and matching boots. Dean slowly runs his fingers down the middle of his chest, the memory of raised scar tissue still tingling inside his fingertips. Uriel's Spear of Destiny left a scar, long, red, half healed. There's no sign of it now, but Dean knows it's still there, underneath his skin.

_Wonder what Dad thought when those feathered fucks showed him the instant replay about what I am, what I've done? _Dean thinks. _Wonder what Mom would think if she saw me? _

He studies the planes of his face, the same jawline, the same lips he's seen nearly every single day since he was old enough to shave. Freckles and stubble, and it's all too familiar, even with new, added details: the thin scars around his right eye, and that firefly of a hand of his.

Dean knows every inch of his body, but it's Gaelen's too. He stares into his eyes, moss green with just a hint of copper and gold. _Well?_ He thinks at his image. _Let's hear it. You got a plan or what? Dude, I'm making this up as I go along._

Gaelen's been silent lately.

_Not talking, huh?_

Still no answer.

_Fine. Be that way then. _

Dean picks up the Spear of Destiny from the table beside the mirror. The edges are still razor sharp, the tip somehow blunted by heat inside his body.

The air around him darkens, and his black cassock fades in, sleek and smooth, against his skin. His greatcoat's next, and the hood settles in about his shoulders. Dean stares at himself in the mirror one last time. Last time pays for all, then. The Horsemen are going to war, and he knows they won't come back to the safe house either way. If they win, there won't be any need to.

If they lose, there won't be any point.

The doorway is suddenly filled with Sam's overlarge, broad-shouldered frame. Sasquatch stands quietly in the doorway as he stares at Dean's reflection. Dean looks in the mirror at Sam and nods. Sam nods back.

Dean lifts the Spear, flicks his wrist towards his back, and the Spear vanishes. He can feel it now, tucked in snug against his back muscles.

"Uh, Dean? You okay?"

"Yeah. Super. You?"

Sam nods again, solemnly.

"Okay then." Dean turns from the mirror, walks right up to his brother. Sam stares intently at him: he can't read Dean's expression, not even as Dean places his left hand over Sam's heart, moves it back a little then places it on Sam's chest. Sam jerks as he feels this strange vibration sweep through him; slight shimmers of copper light flow over him.

Sam blinks rapidly. "Dean. What-what did you do?"

"Just gave you a little something extra you'll need, that's all." Dean reaches out and straightens the collar of Sam's plaid shirt with both hands. "Can't have you going out there looking any old kinda way."

It's the same gesture Dean used when sending Sam _(no, Sammy)_ off to school, and any other time that would annoy the hell out of Sam _(Sammy's a chubby four year old)._

Not this time.

The air hardens around Sam, and that startles him, makes him jump a little. When he looks down at himself his mouth drops open.

He sees shoulder pads, gauntlets, removable gloves. He's covered in armor now, from his neck to his toes. It's sleek, copper colored, much like Chale, Tiesen and Rika's armor, with removable gloves and a hood much like Dean's. Sam stares at the design on the breastplate: even upside down it seems awfully damn familiar: a tree in the middle, flanked by two rearing horses on either side at the top, and below that two winged griffins on either side. There's what looks like a winged angel on one side, and a woman in a long flowing dress holding the hand of a child on the opposite side.

"You gotta be kidding me," Sam whispers to himself. He flexes his shoulders and arms. It's flexible and strong, tailored to his body and measurements, and Dean did it all seemingly with a careless thought.

"Armor? Dean, I…I've got armor now?"

"Yeah. Samirah's doing the same for Nahele. Well, not the armor, but she's giving him a little something extra too."

The penny finally drops on Sam. "Gladiator? You got me Russell Crowe's armor?"

"The design, anyway." Dean looks suddenly wary. "What you don't like it? I can change it to whatever dorky thing you'd like…"

"No. I mean, yeah, yeah I do! Like it I mean. Damn…"

Sam's grin is slightly loopy as he stares down at himself.

"Always did say I'd keep you safe. Not gonna stop now." Dean claps Sam on the shoulder. "All right, young 'un. Time to go. Hey, maybe we can get one last beer at the Roadhouse."

Dean tries not to grin as he turns for the door.

_Damn. He liked it. _

Deep inside Dean's mind Gaelen chuckles, just a little. Dean strides out into the hallway and he doesn't look back.

Sam follows, hesitantly at first; he still wants to look at himself in the mirror.

He's making this up as he goes along, all right. That was a whim, just like taking the Spear of Destiny along, and damn it, Dean Winchester doesn't do anything…_whimsical._

Gaelen might, though. He's _Dean _and he's _Gaelen_, and that's good enough.

At least, he prays it is.

* * *

**_A/N: _**Yeah, I know, that was not my usual blood and guts cliffie. I'm saving up the drama for that one. This week: John, Mary, Tessa, Pastor Jim and Caleb show up, and it's Abaddon versus the Horsemen in Las Vegas.

Lyrics from _cattle and the creeping things_ by the Hold Steady:

_they got to the part with the cattle and the creeping things.  
they said i'm pretty sure we've heard this one before.  
don't it all end up in some revelation?  
with 4 guys on horses, and violent red visions  
famine and death and pestilence and war.  
i'm pretty sure i heard this one before._


	44. Chapter 44

_**A/N #1: **_I recently escaped from the seventh circle of Hell (AKA my old apartment) to nicer, quieter digs. I never realized before how much I hated that other place. To all the writers on this site: if you have a stable, quiet environment to write in, I hope you appreciate it.

_**A/N #2:**_ There is an Imperial Palace Hotel in Las Vegas. I like the name, so I used it. I took liberties with the location: my Imperial Palace is located at the beginning of the Strip; the real one is in the middle of the Vegas Strip.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own _Supernatural_. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**BLACK HORSE CHAPTER 44**_

The last two racks arrive in the Grand Inquisitor's workroom, one for Sam Winchester, and one for that great spotted beast of his. Alastair personally lifts the racks up and pushes them against the walls in the far corners of the room,

Perfect. It's the quiet before the storm. Soon these bone walls will echo with screams and shrieks of pain and anguish. The rack always teases such beautiful music out of damned souls and spirits; Alastair expects these upstart Horsemen will be no different. The Once and Future Boy King will take his rightful place here. Sam was always destined for Hell; he'll just end up in a different part, that's all.

Once secured in place, Sam will have a clear view of his brother Dean's rack. Dean and that black monster horse of his will occupy center stage. They will be able to see and hear everything that happens to the other Horsemen and their wretched mounts.

Alastair closes his eyes, tilts his head back. His nostrils flare open, wide and terrible, as he savors the sights and sounds that echo in his fearsome imagination.

It's the little touches like this that make the job so damned enjoyable.

* * *

Reverend Theotis Halloway senses the angel's presence long before he ever sees him. It's a bright light that casts away all shadows in his mind. His knees creak and ache as he awkwardly kneels down on the floor next to his dining room table. He leans forward, presses his palms flat against the floorboards, bows his head and waits.

This isn't the first time, but it might very well be the last.

There. _Right there. _Halloway keeps his head lowered. He sees polished black shoes, black trousers, and the lower hem of a rumpled tan raincoat.

A hand presses down on the top of his head; the mere touch sends a feeling of peace and contentment surging through his body.

"Be not afraid, "the angel whispers roughly.

"I'm not." Halloway whispers softly, reverently. "I'm here to serve you."

"In twelve hours time you and your flock must be in Las Vegas. You will gather at Treasure Island. Do you know where that is?"

A slight nod.

"You will look for this man. And his people. Four more. Five in all."

An image forms in Halloway's mind, and he knows that every single person in his church is seeing the exact same thing: a man dressed in all black, short dark blond hair, inhumanly beautiful. Those fierce green eyes glow with sparks of gold and copper. The great black horse he rides is equally fearsome; the ground burns underneath its feet. The black horse and rider lead four others, three men and one young woman, mounted on red, white, grey and spotted beasts. It's not at all what Halloway expected, or what he'd been preaching all these years, but he accepts this. He believes. He knows exactly who and what he's looking at.

The news video of the Horsemen running on water was beautiful and terrible, a sign of the End Of Days.

"Everyone in your congregation must come. All two thousand members. You will bear witness to whatever happens there,"the angel rumbles. Halloway startles as the hand on his head gently tucks its fingers underneath his chin and lifts his head up. He's never been allowed to look the angel in the face before.

"I can't–"Halloway closes his eyes, shakes his head _No_, just a little. "I mustn't look at your face."

"It's all right. It is. Look upon me, Theotis Halloway."

Halloway opens his eyes. He blinks in amazement. The angel is a young man, dark haired, with startlingly intense blue eyes. His expression softens as he stares down at the older man. "We appreciate your service." A slight smile curves the corners of the angel's mouth upwards. "We do."

The air around the angel brightens so much it hurts. Halloway squeezes his eyes shut. He can still see the light through his closed eyelids, pure and golden, and it's several moments later when he finally opens his eyes and realizes he's alone.

Halloway feels joy and peace such as he's never known before.

"Thank you, Lord. Thank you." He and his people have been chosen. They have the Lord's work to do now.

Miles away, at a rest stop outside Las Vegas, a young red-haired woman sits quietly at a wooden picnic table. No one gives her a second glance, not even when nineteen other people fade in out of thin air and arrange themselves in a circle around the table.

Anna smiles at Castiel as he sits down across from her. "Well?"

"Reverend Halloway and his people will be there."

"Good." Anna glances around at the other angels and they all nod in return. "They'll come," Raphael mutters darkly. "They all will."

Nineteen more church groups will be present at ground zero in Sin City. It's Plan B, elegantly simple and doable.

Humans are such fragile creatures, and if a few thousand of them get broken in all the chaos and confusion? The energy released from the slaughter of all those clueless innocents will surely jumpstart the Apocalypse just as well.

* * *

It's the damnedest thing.

_Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, Dean, _Dad rumbles in Dean's memory. _I don't want you boys to depend on luck. Luck only goes so far, and I sure in the hell don't trust it. _

Dad's marine lecture about Murphy's Law. Huh. Black dog hunt. Dayton, Ohio. Talk about a blast from the past.

Maybe it's not exactly the kind of thing that should come to mind hours before the battle to stop the Apocalypse starts, but the fading echo of John Winchester's voice makes Dean smile a little as he dismounts and walks up to the Roadhouse. Samirah's tack immediately disappears in a sheet of blue lightning that shimmers over her sleek black coat.

Dean takes the lead, of course; Ellen's right behind him, walking next to Samirah. Bobby's next, with Rumsfeld, followed by Sam, Rika, and Tiesen. Nahele, Actaeon and Ajani walk beside their respective riders.

Ellen snorts as she pushes past Dean. She shakes her head as she pulls her keys out and unlocks the front door. "I don't need protection in my own place, boy."

Dean shrugs. He knows she's a little pissed because Chale disappeared on the ride over and hasn't shown up yet. Even with everything they can do, 'port long distances, call down lightning and make the heavens roll with thunder, they didn't call ahead first. Couldn't. No cell phones.

"Jo? Honey, I'm home!" Ellen calls out as she walks inside.

This should be cake. Dean's dressed in civvies now, a long sleeved tan Henley, faded jeans and workboots. He's the only one visible, aside from Bobby and Rumsfeld. Everyone else is cloaked, invisible. Best to keep it that way, until Ellen has a chance to explain everything to Ash and Jo. Horsemen mixing with hunters is sure to be a pretty damn bad combination.

_Whatever can go wrong, will..._

It's after hours, so it's not like there's going to be fifty hunters armed to the teeth waiting inside, right?

Right.

Ash looks up. He's sitting at a table with his laptop.

Jo's there, standing in the middle of the room.

Holding her rifle.

"Jo?" Ellen walks forward. "Honey, we gotta talk..."

Jo glances at her mother, but Dean has her full attention. Jo's eyes widen, and Dean_ knows_.

_Son of a bitch. We're busted. _

Jo isn't fooled by the group illusion they've cast. Judging from the way Ash is staring at Dean, Ash isn't fooled either. Perception is reality, and maybe now, with the end of the world right around the corner, reality just isn't what it used to be.

It's weird, but for a split second, Dean sees himself as they see him: dressed in black cloth and leather, hood up, his head and neck shrouded in darkness. He sees the copper and gold glint in his eyes, the way his hand glows. Sam, Rika and Tiesen look just as inhuman. Otherworldly.

"Crap," Sam whispers. Dean knows Sam's seeing the same thing.

Tiesen cocks his head to one side. "I think they see us, little sister."

Rika nods solemnly as she strokes the side of Actaeon's neck. "I think you're right."

None of this seems to bother Ash, but then, he's _not_ the one with the shotgun.

"Horsemen dudes,"Ash crows. "Your video went viral on the web!"

Dean sees the decision to raise the rifle and fire flicker in Jo's eyes. Beside him, Samirah rumbles in response. Dean's not sure he could stop her from unloading on Jo.

He's not sure he could stop himself. There's a part of him, past and present, human and eternal, that wouldn't respond very kindly to being shot, not even by a friend.

"Joanna Beth, you may as well put the gun down." Ellen strides forward and jerks the shotgun out of her daughter's hands before Jo has a chance to raise it. "That definitely won't work on this bunch."

Jo backs up, at least she tries to. Ellen grabs her by the arm and makes her stand still.

"Momma?"

"It's okay. We're fine."

"F-Fine?" Jo stammers. She stares at Ellen as though her mother has lost her mind. "Sam's here. Sam's dead!"

"Um, uh...I...I got better," the younger Winchester mutters out loud. The grin he gives Jo is uncertain and somewhat cheesy.

Dean scrubs his face with his right hand. "Smooth, Gilligan. Real smooth. Geez..."

Bobby grunts as he looks at the bar. "So does a fella have to come back from the dead to get a drink around here?"

* * *

The Goddess Kali snuggles up against her consort, Lord Shiva's side. She looks down at the bright lights of Las Vegas as she idly fingers the strand of severed human heads around her neck. They're alone on the mountain for now, but not for long. The others are coming. The air buzzes and crackles with their faraway voices. Soon.

"I love coming topside," Kali murmurs. "It's always so disgusting every time." A thrill of anticipation claws its way up her spine. She hugs herself with her six arms, the moonlight reflecting softly on her pale blue skin.

Lord Shiva laughs as he puts his arm around her. "We have good seats, my love. Lucifer has promised one hell of a show."

That makes them both laugh. The cobra draped around Shiva's neck nuzzles the side of his face, its forked tongue gently flicking against the chalk white human ash that coats Shiva's skin.

Kali puts her head on Shiva's shoulder. "Five Horsemen now. Interesting. I used to follow the four of them around in the good old days."

Shiva nods. "I know." He blinks. The third eye in his forehead is just a second behind the others. "The times are a-changing."

"Yes they are."

"You'll have all the death and destruction you ever desired this day. More than the old times." Kali is silent.

"Do you miss it?" Shiva says softly. "The battles? The bloodletting and the bloodlust?"

"No. But-"

"But what?"

Kali lifts her head up and stares him in the eyes. "I miss dancing."

Shiva smiles. "Well, I think we can do something about _that_, dearest." He gets to his feet in one smooth motion, puts out a hand and pulls her up from the tigerskin rug they were lounging on.

Kali and Shiva dance. Wildly, joyously.

At 1:15am the city of Las Vegas is jolted by an earthquake measuring 5.9 on the Richter scale.

* * *

Ajani and Actaeon flank Ash and his laptop, one horse on either side of the human. They're just as interested in whatever's on the screen as he is.

_Huh, _Ajani mutters. _I knew I should've run a little faster. You were right beside me. You blocked their view of me. _

Actaeon snorts. _They still saw you, Ajani._

_Hmph._ Ajani doesn't seem convinced. He shakes his sleek head from side to side. _They didn't get a good look, _he grumbles.

Bobby's happy. He's at the next table sharing a six-pack with Ellen, Sam, Tiesen and Rika. Rumsfeld's stretched out at his feet, snoring softly.

_Idjit dog._

Jo squirms on the barstool Ellen made her sit on. Her eyes dart around the room. There's too much weirdness here, there and everywhere. She looks freaked out and miserable.

"Hey, Jo," Dean says, softly, gently. He slides onto the stool right next to her, a half glass of Jack in his left hand, and the bottle in his right. Jo draws back from him without meaning too. Dean doesn't take offense. It's a helluva lot to get used to, a ton of weird crap that got dumped on her all of a sudden. Her eyes skitter from the thin scars around his right eye, down to that firefly right hand of his. Dean holds the whiskey glass out to her as a peace offering with his left. It's lame, but it's the best he can do.

Jo grabs the glass out of Dean's hand and drinks it all down in one gulp.

Samirah strolls by just then, ears pricked, head held high. Nahele trails his mother, content to follow where ever she goes. It's the first time he's ever been inside a human dwelling, and Samirah is obviously showing him around the place.

Jo stares fixedly at the horses. That mischievous glint in Samirah's eyes is hard to miss. She tosses her head, snorts as they walk by.

_Take a picture, little girl. It'll last longer._

"Little? Girl?" Jo mouths silently. Then she whispers out loud: "It spoke to me. Spoke to me inside my head. Oh, Jesus."

Jo's fingers unhinge. The whiskey glass tumbles towards the floor. Dean scoops it up with his left hand, pours two fingers from the bottle in his right and pushes the glass back into Jo's hands. She holds the glass in a death grip, nods. Another long swallow, and Jo's eyes go a little unfocused. That deer in the headlights look eases up, just a little.

Jo lets out a breath. "I, uh….I wanted to come see you when you were at Bobby's place. After…you know. After Devil's Gate. Mama told me not to go. Told me she'd kick my ass if I did. Said you weren't safe to be around."

Dean laughs. "She was right. I acted like an ass."

"So..." Jo sways on the barstool and leans heavily against Dean's shoulder. "You're a Horseman now, huh?"

"Yeah."

"And you got your right hand back."

Dean nods.

"And then you got that horse of yours."

"Well,_ she_ came to get _me_." Dean stares down at his work boots. "I was born into this. Long time ago. Finally caught up with me." Dean turns his head and the smile he gives Jo is boyish, slightly crooked but warm and oddly endearing. "I'll tell you all about it someday, after things settle down."

"Some day?" Jo blinks. "Is this...I thought this was the end of _everything_, Dean."

Dean can feel Jo's heartbeat, fast and skittish. He's suddenly aware of how human, how fragile she is. A wave of emotion sweeps over Dean as he looks around the room. They're his _family. All_ of them.

Tiesen laughs and shakes his head at something Ellen says; Rumsfeld grins happily as Rika rubs his belly, while Sam quietly picks at the label of his beer bottle. Bobby sits back in his chair; it's the most relaxed Dean has ever seen him look in months. Ajani and Actaeon watch Ash on his laptop like kids watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Nahele stops in front of the door to the kitchen in the back, ears pricked, head tilted slightly to one side. _Mother, what's this?_

_Let's find out._ The door swings open by itself and Samirah walks through as if she owns the place. Nahele follows her in, frisking along more like a foal than a full grown colt.

_My family. Mine. I'm not gonna lose them, _Dean thinks._ I can't._

His family _and_ the world; it's a package deal. Can't have one without the other. Dean's vision blurs; he takes a deep breath to settle himself. "It's not the end. We're headed to Vegas to stop it."

Jo doesn't look convinced.

"It's okay." He nudges her with his shoulder and is immediately rewarded with a smile. It's small and weak, but it's there.

"We'll be fine."

Five feet away from the front door the air churns bright copper and Chale and his grey horse Ishmael are suddenly_ there, _standing inside the Roadhouse. Chale's broad face softens; he grins when he looks at Ellen and the others.

"Had to make a stop," Chale rumbles.

" 'bout time you showed up," Ellen drawls lazily. She gets up, goes over and kisses Chale, shows him _exactly _how _much _she missed him.

Jo stares wide-eyed. "My mom likes _him_?"

"Yeah." Dean shrugs. Jo glares fiercely at Chale and Ellen, and then back at Dean. "I mean, a lot."

"Oh, God…" Jo grabs the bottle out of Dean's glowing right hand and takes a long swallow.

* * *

"Son of a bitch," John Winchester mutters.

Mary shakes her head as she she reads aloud the logo over the front desk. "The Imperial Palace. You're joking about this, right?"

Tessa smiles. "Not what you expected, is it?"

"Nope."

The hotel lobby is ornate. Two huge Chinese dog statues flank the front door on either side. Four gigantic intertwined dragons, black, copper, jade green and white, slither their way across the mural wall behind the front desk.

Mary smiles at the sound of the giant waterfall on the right. Water flows softly from ceiling to floor, over corrugated brass plates to large smooth brown, black and white river stones. The chairs, tables and lamps in the place are expensive, high end and elaborate. The fish pond in the center is huge.

Caleb goes over to the edge, leans over, and lets out a low whistle when he sees fifty or so brilliantly colored koi fish flashing back and forth underneath the water.

No one gives the six spirits or the reaper a second glance.

"I think we came here on vacation once," Deanna Campbell murmurs.

Samuel grins. "Sure did. I won big at the tables that night."

Deanna looks jubilant. _"Gotcha!"_

"_Crap."_

"So you were just going out for a walk that night, huh?"

Samuel does a good job of looking apologetic. "Well, yeah. I walked into the casino." He lets out an overly theatrical_ oof a_nd doubles over as she playfully punches him in the shoulder.

"We use this place as a safe house sometimes," Tessa says proudly. "Nobody really expects to find souls on the run in a place like this. Or a city like this."

"Hide in plain sight." Pastor Jim nods. "Are any of the staff aware?"He quirks an eyebrow at Tessa, and then at the front desk.

One of the staff, a tall Asian man in a green blazer, bald and broad-shouldered, looks directly at Pastor Jim and winks.

_Good morning, padre. I see you._

Pastor Jim startles. Tessa laughs. "Yes. He's the manager. A few more of the staff and the guests aren't what they seem." She turns towards the elevator and the others follow her. "We have the top floor all to ourselves."

Caleb looks amused. "We're spirits," he drawls, "and we're using an elevator to go up?"

John snorts.

Tessa smiles. "Well, if you want to ghost your way up to the top, be my guest. You might get stuck between floors. This place is warded."

Caleb shakes his head. "I'll pass."

"Any word on Sam and Dean?" John growls as the elevator doors slide shut.

The skin between Tessa's brows crinkles. "As far as we can tell, they're still at large. Still free. All the signs are there, we just don't know exactly where and when the end of days will start. I should know more later."

The doors slide open. Tessa goes left and the group follows. The rest of the building is just as ornate as the lobby. The end of the hallway is one huge window to the outside world. John stops, then leaves the group to walk over for a closer look.

Mary walks up beside him. "Penny for your thoughts," she says wistfully.

"You're a cheap date, you know that?" John mock growls. Mary laughs.

"I'm just thinking of the boys." John's tone is carefully neutral, but Mary gets it just the same.

"After you..."John stops. _Damn._ It's suddenly too hard to talk around that lump in his throat. He swallows, then pushes past it. "I never meant for them to live that life. You know that, don't you?"

"I know," Mary says quietly. She takes John by the arm and lays her head against his shoulder. "I never meant for you to live that life either."

Quiet and peaceful don't happen very often in the life of a Winchester; it's best to take those moments as they come, so they do. John and Mary stare down at the street below. People and traffic surge up and down the street below; after all, this city never sleeps. The brightly lit sign below shines like a beacon:

_**Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada**_

* * *

_**A/N:**_ I know, not my usual evil cliffie. Next post – this Friday.


	45. Chapter 45

_**A/N:**_ It's Friday.

* * *

_**Chapter 45**_

Abaddon the Fallen smiles to himself. He could easily push his way out of the pit now. All he would have to do is try. Kali and Shiva shook the earth with their dance. The edges around the seal have been loosened.

The Angel of the Pit doesn't try.

He crouches there in the total darkness, and he thinks of Dean Winchester, that Gaelen. There is a purpose to all things, a script that must be followed. No matter what happens afterwards, the Horseman will be forever known as He Who Unleashed The End of All There Is From the Pit. That has a nice ring to it.

They will both play their parts in this little drama, and Abaddon does not want to disappoint.

_Soon, little brother. Soon…_

* * *

_Well muscled, freckled skin covered with a sheen of sweat. The taste of his skin on her mouth was intoxicating, strength and fear mixed with anger. _

_Dean growled when he came, and so did she. _

The vair lopin parasite inside Lillith's skin shudders at the memory. It's not unheard of, to experience strong sense memories like that. The parasite carefully rearranges the muscles in Lillith's face to a beautiful, blank mask.

It knows that both Heaven and Hell are watching her. It has its part to play, the same as everyone else.

The parasite walks Lillith's stolen body down the Vegas strip with an irresistable sway in her hips. She's breathtaking blonde perfection in that low cut, slinky white dress. A wrinkle in the fabric of reality, a small bubble of confusion and destruction surrounds and follows her as she walks.

A taxi cab driver is distracted and runs his cab into the back of a beer delivery truck. Cars run red lights to get a better look. People stare at her with dazed expressions on their faces. They stumble as they walk into each other, ricochet off lamp posts, parked cars. Some turn around and walk after her at a respectable distance. The idea of going to work or to school has been wiped clean from their minds. They're compelled to follow her, and they do it without question or struggle. She's the most beautiful human they've ever seen, for for some of them she will be the last thing they ever see.

Treasure Island isn't far away. It pretends to be interested in the sights and sounds, New York, New York, the MGM Grand, but it's not. Man's world has fallen before, and it will again.

Once the vair lopin provokes Dean Winchester to a killing rage, it will quietly vacate Lillith's skin. That is the way of their kind, to slip out and away, shielded by magicks once the host flesh is destroyed.

After all, Lillith is gone, eaten away.

It catches sight of her reflection in the mirror, and the sheer beauty of her form makes her smile.

_Dean will love me again. I know he will…_

* * *

5:30am.

Dean glances at Sam and nods.

Time to go. They're all deceptively casual about it, of course, like it's just another day at the office.

Another majorly weird day at the office.

There's the scrape of chair legs against worn floorboards aseveryone but Ash pushes back from the tables. Ash leans back in his chair and cuts loose with a jaw stretching yawn that makes big red Ajani prick his ears and stare intently. It's highly likely that whether the world ends or not, Ash will probably sleep through it.

Jo looks suddenly alert, as if the realization that the Apocalypse is nigh has shocked her back to sobriety. She watches intently as Dean slides off the bar stool next to her. He looks back at her and winks. Jo winks back. She knows better than to say good bye. That's bad luck.

Bobby stands up slowly as Dean stops right in front of him. The younger man fidgets, and Bobby can tell the boy is still obsessing about destroying Singer Salvage.

"Well, come on," Bobby growls. "Gonna stand there all day, are ya?" He raises his arms and Dean steps in for the hug.

"You better come back, boy," Bobby whispers gruffly. "We still got some things to discuss, _remember_?"

Dean nods gravely. "Yes sir."

Dean steps away and Sam engulfs Bobby in a bear hug. The older man is a little surprised when Rika gives him a chaste peck on the side of his face. Tiesen and Chale settle for a handshake. It's manly enough. No lady parts there.

Samirah tacks up. She moves towards the front door in a slow, stately walk and disappears in a blaze of copper light. Nahele is right behind her, and the other horses follow, one by one.

"Damn showoffs," Dean grumbles. Sam walks over and opens the door the normal way. Dean's right behind, but he stops short when Sam suddenly stops in the doorway.

"Dude. You okay?" Sam says quietly.

It's a chick flick moment ambush. Dean rolls his eyes. "I'm the same as I was the last time you asked me that." He quirks an eyebrow at Sam, daring him to go any further.

The dreaded Dean Winchester glare has absolutely no effect.

Dean groans. _Crap!_

Sam grins. "We're gonna have a talk after this is over. A long talk. About your feelings, about this God's Babysitter stuff. _All_ of it, Dean."

"When I wanna share and care I'll send you a memo, Doctor Phil."

"You don't have to carry this alone. You're not going to, and that's that." Sam stands up straighter. He looms over Dean, and all that does is make Dean scowl at him.

Rika and Tiesen can't decide what's more interesting: watching Dean's epic fail of a bitchface or what's going on with the two lovebirds.

Chale turns to Ellen. "Oh, wait a minute. Here." He opens both hands, palm up. There's a sharp crackle of copper static, and when the air clears a small silver kitten with black stripes sits comfortably on Chale's massive palms.

Dean's eyes widen. "Bastet?"

"Who?" Sam looks puzzled.

"Bastet," Dean whispers. "Egyptian cat goddess. _Damn._"

"This is going to be good," Tiesen sounds absolutely gleeful.

"Oh, good grief," Rika mutters.

There's a picture of this kitten in the dictionary, right next to the word "adorable." Another picture next to the word "cute." The little furball even has large golden eyes, and it stares unblinkingly up at Ellen with no fear at all.

"Chale?" Ellen sounds uncertain. She'd guessed Chale was up to something, figured he was going to cast a spell, raise a shield around her and the Roadhouse. Something. Anything but...

"What is this?"

"Umm...protection," Chale says simply, as though that explains everything.

"Protection. Huh. We've got squirrels out back bigger than this one."

The kitten hmphs, loud and haughty.

Ellen's eyes widen. "Uh, not your normal kitten, huh?"

"Nope. She's agreed to protect you. And everyone here."

"Okay," Ellen says slowly. "Has she got a name?"

Chale's eyes gleam mischievously. "Boo Boo."

"Oh, he's gonna pay for that one," Tiesen says, sotto voce.

The kitten's head whips around as it stares up at Chale in shock. _Huh? _

The fierce glare "Boo Boo" gives Chale and then Ellen would do a full grown Siberian tiger proud. "Boo Boo" pins her ears back and those tiny little claws come out.

Chale shakes his head at the mighty mite. "You promised me you'd behave."

"Boo boo" rolls her eyes, and the grunt she makes is softer. _Oh, all right! _The claws go back in.

After another awkward moment Ellen gingerly takes the little critter into her arms. The kitten settles in comfortably enough.

Jo turns back to the bar, cradles her head in her arms on the countertop with a very loud groan.

"Go on, baby," Ellen plants a kiss on Chale's jaw. "I"ll be here when you get back."

Another eye roll from "Boo Boo", and Jo groans even louder.

Tiesen waits until they're out on the parking lot next to the horses. He lowers his voice as he claps Chale on his broad back. "I've seen it all now. You convinced your ex-wife Bastet to protect your current girlfriend. I'm pretty damned impressed, brother."

Rika shakes her head. "_Men. _You _do_ realize she is going to make you pay dearly for that, don't you?"

Chale turns to wave at Ellen as she pauses in the doorway. "They'll be all right."

Dean walks over to Samirah, gathers up the reins loosely and swings into the saddle. His clothes shift from faded denim to sleek black leather.

Ellen leans against the doorway with the kitten cradled in one arms. Bobby joins her, and they both watch as Samirah swings around to face the others. Horse and rider stand quietly, watching, as one by one Sam, Chale, Rika and Tiesen mount up. As they do their armor settles in around them, bright and unearthly. The horses shine from within, copper and blue eyes flashing.

_Got his game face on,_ Bobby thinks to himself as he watches Dean, and then in the next second he realizes he's wrong about that. Dean's expression softens. It deepens, revealing the the emotion in his face, the pride and the love for them all. Dean's gaze, moss green, copper and gold, lingers on the faces of each of his sister and his brothers. He's Dean and he's Gaelen, and right now it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Dean gets the same look in return, from Rika, Sam, Tiesen and Chale. No matter what happens, they'll fight together, and fall together if need be.

Samirah dances backwards a few steps , then half rears, her neck bowed like a warhorse. The deep rumble she makes echoes in the brightening sky above. The asphalt underneath her hooves glows with orange fire and molten hoofprints. Dean sits in the saddle gracefully, effortlessly, Samirah's reins held loosely in his shimmering right hand.

The apocahorses respond, loudly, joyously. They toss their heads, rumble right back at her, dancing in place, excitedly, ears pricked, tails held high and proudly.

Dean (or is it Gaelen?) nods, and the wink he gives his fellow Horsemen is pure Dean.

_We got work to do. _

The wind picks up out of nowhere as the black horse wheels around, impossibly smooth and agile. Dean and Samirah move as one.

A sudden chill ripples its way down Ellen's spine. It's not fear, or dread. It's a good, strong thing, ornery, wild and defiant.

"That's it. Go kick their asses," Bobby whispers fiercely.

The black horse stretches out in the early morning light, spears of light flashing over the long, sleek muscles underneath her ebony black coat. The air blazes around her.

The others follow, all gone in an eyeblink.

They don't turn around, and they don't look back.

* * *

**_A/N: _**Next chapter will be posted Wednesday. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Well, maybe not...


	46. Chapter 46

_**A/N: **_I apologize for the delay in continuing this story. Much thanks to all the patient people who have this story on alert. I appreciate it!

* * *

_**Chapter 46**_

Less than five minutes after the Horsemen leave, Bobby makes himself useful. He paints a devil's trap on the floor with a large red permanent marker, directly in front of the front door, and then he covers it with a large grey floor mat. Ellen doesn't mind, so Bobby repeats the sigil at the back door too. He paints protective symbols on the windows, using holy water and his fingertips.

Damn it, a man just can't stand around and do nothing, 'specially on a day like today.

Twenty minutes later an RV pulls onto the lot. A dusty old station wagon (Mom, Dad, and two and a half kids) pulls up five minutes later. Minutes after that a long haul trucker driving a double rig filled with light-bulbs turns in. During the next thirty minutes twenty more vehicles turn in.

Ellen thinks she knows why; she can feel it in the air herself. It's not safe out there, not today. Even though they're out on the road these folks instinctively head for a safe place to ride out the storm. She doesn't have the heart to turn them away, so she opens the Roadhouse early for business.

Ash never does go to sleep. He turns on the television instead.

What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas on a normal day, but not this time. The city was hit by an earthquake early this morning, and now there are unconfirmed reports of weirdness on the Strip.

"Sin City has the highest number of churches per capita of any major U.S. City," Ash mutters aloud to himself. It's an otherwise useless bit of information that probably no one but him would know. "Not gonna do them much good today." He sits down at one of the tables nearby and makes himself comfortable.

Jo misses that action. She's out back, throwing some empty cardboard boxes into the dumpster. She slams the boxes in as she thinks of her mom and that Horseman, that _Pestilence_. He seems human enough, but..._ewww_. And what was the deal with that kitten he left behind?

_Boo boo? _Weird.

Maybe it's the hangover, but Jo is feeling downright silly, even with the Apocalypse practically on her doorstep. She's right in the middle of visualizing a giant anvil (just like the ones she saw on _Looney Tunes _when she was a kid) dropping down on Pestilence, his darn horse, _and_ that creepy ass cat, when she catches a whiff of burnt matches on the breeze.

Sulfur.

Claws scrabble on the gravel behind her; the hair on the back of Jo's neck stands straight up, rigid and painful. She gets sober in a heartbeat, knowing full well that her life may well be measured in minutes and seconds now.

Whatever this is snarls like a dog. A very _large_, very _mean_ dog.

The sulfur smell gets even stronger. Jo backs up, flattens herself against the back wall, then reaches out and picks up the lid of the trashcan nearby. She holds it by the handle, like it's some half-assed shield. It's lame, but it's all she's got at hand. She left her shotgun inside, damn it, but she's not going to become a doggy treat without a fight. She knows that as soon as she turns to run the thing will be on her. She'll never get the chance to open the back door.

In the next few seconds all that becomes a moot point anyway.

The little silver and black striped kitten is _suddenly_ there, right between Jo and the hellhound. The kitten raises up into that classic Halloween cat pose: back arched, ears flat against her head. Those tiny claws come out.

Jo blinks.

She sees sleek silver and black striped fur, long black and silver dreadlocks, bejeweled gold armor engraved with intricate symbols. _Boo boo's_ eight feet tall now, lean and lethal.

The hellhound squeals in surprise.

Wickedly curved silver claws slice through the air. Jo gets the impression the hound has been cut up into several different pieces. The shadow chunks thrash around on the gravel, and then dissolve into a ripple of oily black smoke that turns grey and fades into the breeze.

The cat woman crouches there for a moment longer. When she rises it's in one long, smooth, unnaturally graceful motion. She tilts her head slightly to one side as her wide golden eyes settle unblinking on Jo. Bastet doesn't speak aloud. She doesn't have to.

_Go back inside, child, _she purrs inside Jo's head._ It is safe. For now. _

Jo nods. She can't argue with any of this. Won't even try. She backs into the Roadhouse as Bastet turns away. The goddess resumes that watchful crouching pose, her long ears pricked alertly.

When Jo walks into the main room everyone is glued to the television. Ellen quirks an eyebrow at her daughter as she slides onto the barstool next to her.

"Protection's workin', Mama," Jo says with a grin.

Hell, maybe that damn Pestilence isn't so bad after all.

__

_Maybe._

* * *

Malcolm Rivers grumbles as he waits at the bus stop. The express is late.

Again. He curses to himself as he stares up at the darkening sky. The weather forecast said sunny today, but it looks like rain after all. The sky overhead looks funny, dark purplish black, bruised somehow.

Something ice cold brushes against his ankles. Malcolm jerks back; at least, he tries to. His body knows the truth before his mind does. There are worse fates than death; it's in the air all around him.

Malcolm's mouth drops open as he stares down at the fog around his feet. Fog? In Vegas? He's just seeing things. Yeah, that's it. He manages to hold onto that silly notion even as the fog turns thicker, darker. Malcolm tries to step back, but he can't. The black fog coils around his ankles, holds him in place. He shivers uncontrollably as dense cold travels up his legs and backside.

Something is crawling around inside him.

_It's in me...Oh God, it's in me..._

His skin humps up as whatever this is travels up his back, using his spine and his ribcage like stair steps. He can feel legs, hundreds of them, poke into his muscles. His clothes bulge up and outward.

Malcolm opens his mouth to yell for _help_, from _somebody_, _anybody,_ and that's when he seesthat everyone up and down the street is caught like this, frozen in place, on foot, in their cars, held fast by coils of dense black smoke.

Malcolm screams loud and long, and the leech underneath his skin chuckles at the sound.

* * *

They're somewhere, _somewhen_ again, one sidestep away from this reality, out in the desert right outside Sin City. It's a little past dawn, still light out here in the desert, but the sky over Las Vegas, Nevada is pitch black. Flashes of lightning appear in the clouds over the city.

Samirah looks up at the sky and snorts. _They call that wild weather? Please._

Dean and Samirah walk slightly in the lead. Sam rides Nahele on Dean's right. Next to him is Rika on Actaeon, flanked by Chale and Ishmael. Tiesen sits Ajani on Dean's left. They walk their horses at a leisurely pace. Sam could almost fool himself that they're just out for another ride.

Almost.

The gods of the earth and air are all around, faded glimpses of otherworldly shapes and colors, close enough to reach out and touch.

It's very hard to ignore that.

The Horsemen bend time around them, slip through the crowd unseen. Within their own private, personal space it's days ago, before any of the spectator-gods even bothered to show up.

A great dark wolf crouches directly in front of them. Its muzzle is tied shut by a slender silver ribbon.

_Fenrir._

The wolf nuzzles the tall man standing at its side. The man looks human, but Sam knows he's anything but.

_Loki._

Loki smiles; he pets the massive critter on its head. "Soon, my boy. Soon."

Samirah doesn't turn a hair. She moves ahead of Sam and Nahele. The huge black horse calmly walks right through the man and the wolf, doesn't even react as the images break apart with a silver shimmer, as easily as a dandelion in the wind.

Nahele goggles at the sight, but he follows his mother's lead.

It's all so casual, Sam knows that Dean and Samirah did that on purpose, to show him and Nahele that it was okay. Sam steadies himself. After a first few jumps his heartbeat settles down into a regular rhythm.

All around them now are creatures and beings of legend, and Sam finds he can name them all. It's as free and easy as breathing.

Some of the taller gods are hundreds of feet tall. They resemble wildly colorful African stilt dancers, but Sam knows those streamers are skin, not clothing. They move through the air, swaying back and forth, and the winds pick up in response. Over at the base of the mountain nearby, the surface of that sea green lake ripples and churns. Poseidon rises up into the open air, fully formed; he scowls darkly at his brethren as they sway and dance with wild abandon. Such unruly behavior is unseemly.

Sam looks up.

The clouds over the desert move swiftly, smoothly through the air. Impossibly large, dark shapes move inside them.

Sam glimpses smooth grey skin, bright colored red scales ...

_Abtu…_

...brightly colored red scales...

_Anet..._

They're Eqyptian...sacred, sky gods in the form of giant fish, associated with the sun God Ra.

Samirah slows up, falls in right beside Sam and Nahele. She nickers with amusement at the wide-eyed look on her son's face. Sam knows he's got the same look. Chale, Rika, Tiesen and their mounts are being uncharacteristically polite. Rika glances away to her left as she pretends something over there is just so damned interesting. Chale's trying hard not to laugh.

"Uh huh. Mikey likes it." Dean smirks a little.

"You did this, didn't you? When you gave me the armor?" The gifts are from Dean _and_ Gaelen. Sam knows that, he just doesn't know_ how_ he does.

Dean sounds casual enough, like he's discussing what cheeseburger to have for lunch. "Figured you'd want to be able to put a name to the face when we start kicking ass out here."

That freakishly tall black dude on the right is a full head taller than Sam. The black tailcoat he wears is stylish and spotless, coal black, just like the top hat and the sunglasses he wears.

_Baron Samedi. Voo Dou Loa. The Great Boss._

A huge feathered snake thing rises up above the crowd. Brilliant metallic green feathers flutter ghost-like in the breeze.

_Quetzalcoatl._

"We could clean house. Right now," Tiesen says brightly. "They'd never know what hit them."

Chale laughs. "What's the betting pool?"

Tiesen's big red horse shakes his head from side to side. His bridle makes a sound like distant church bells tolling. _Better than even odds that we fry the planet._

"So they _all_ want that, then?"

"No, Sam," Rika says quietly. "Some do, some don't."

Behind the crowd Sam sees gigantic creatures, shadow shapes of wolves, bears, gorillas.

_Animal spirits. Kachina._

"Some of them like things just the way they are. Even so, they won't help us." Rika shrugs. "Won't try to stop this."

A tall older man dressed in blinding white robes stands regally apart from the crowd.

"Dean? That's...that's _Odin_?"

"Yep." The look Dean gives the god is hooded, unreadable. There's history between them, and Sam's willing to bet none of it was pleasant.

"You met him?"

"Once." Dean's gaze softens as he looks down at Samirah. He strokes the side of her finely arched neck with his right hand, his fingers pale golden against her midnight black.

Samirah tosses her head. _He's a sore loser. And so is that eight-legged mule of his._

"Oh."Sam silently adds yet another thing to his list of "Things To Ask Dean About" when this is all over. In the next moment something else gets added to the list as well.

Samirah stops short. _Oh, not again._

Dean jerks upright in the saddle. His eyes blaze green and gold.

Everything - Samirah, Sam and the others, the whole world - draws away from him. Dean slumps forward in the saddle, as the vision rises up all around him.

* * *

"Sonofabitch."

Parking lot. Bright yellow school buses lined up along the fences. Dean stands there in the center of the lot as the doors open and people leave the buses single file. Women, kids, and older people. Men with their families. No one notices the man in black and maybe that's just as well.

Angels and demons. prowl the rooftops of the buses. Humans armed with automatic weapons are everywhere.

Dean can barely see their wings, sooty black and somewhat smoky, in the sunlight. Without turning his head he can see all around him, in all four directions. The scenes shift, the faces of the humans all around change.

North…

Two young black kids. Twins. Sister and brother. _Olivia and William Cross._ They were overtaken on their way to school this morning. The smile on Olivia's face is unpleasant, and William sneers, black-eyed, at the humans below.

South…

Anna, slim and red-haired, stands on the rooftop of the bus nearest the front gate.

East…

Four more vessels, none of them related this time. _Alden Lange_, his wife _Katie_, his daughter_ Lainey_ and oldest son _Jessie_. The kids are possessed by angels. The parents are black-eyed.

...and West...

A glimpse of light tan cloth billowing in the wind. Dean already knows what he's going to see as his sight turns in that direction.

"Castiel," Dean growls to himself.

The angel pays Dean no mind. Castiel stands on the rooftop of the bus and he smiles coldly as he looks down at the humans assembling on the ground.

Not good. Not good at all.

If he trusted his eyes, he would think that this scene was one and the same. It's not. The buildings in the background shift and change, as does the neon lit skyline above. Dean gets it then. Four points. Four different staging areas around the Mirage Fountain and Treasure Island.

…_release me, child…_

The words roll through the concrete, shake and rattle pipes underground as they rumble through the ground underneath his feet.

…_release me…_

The sound builds to an earth-shaking crescendo. Dean can't feel his body anymore. The earth splits and everything falls into the darkness of the pit.

The earth screams.

* * *

Dean comes back to himself with a jerk.

"Saw it," he croaks hoarsely. Everyone's dismounted, and the Horsemen and their mounts are arranged around him in a tight circle. Samirah's stands solidly at his back, and Sam's at his side, holding him up. He feels a little wobbly, but he shakes the feeling off quickly enough. He has to.

They're still smack in the middle of the god-multitude. Still cloaked, still unseen, but there's something different now.

Something huge and something very very dead.

The great god Quetzalcoatl is now the late god Quetzalcoatl. It lies crumpled on the ground a few feet away, its golden eyes staring sightlessly into eternity. The gods themselves mill around in confusion. They can't pinpoint the source of the attack.

Dean blinks. "Tiesen?"

"What?" Tiesen says, nonplussed. "Wasn't me."

Chale shrugs. So does Sam.

The horses snicker among themselves.

"Then who-" Dean stares at the massive serpent corpse, and then it hits him. "Rika?"

Rika looks rather sheepish. "I got anxious," she says quietly. She casts a sideways glance at the recently deceased snake god and shudders a little. "I can't stand snakes."

_Oh_. Gaelen chuckles to himself, deep inside Dean's head. Well. He should have remembered_ that_.

Samirah lifts her head, nuzzles Dean's ear to get his attention.

"What'd you see?" Sam says flatly.

"Feathered dicks and black eyed demons. And humans. Thousands of 'em. They're going to sacrifice the humans to open up the pit. If I don't gank Lillith, they figure mass slaughter ought to do it."

Chale nods. "Thought so. I could feel something up ahead. We all could."

"It's a trap," Tiesen sounds bored. "One place for each of us. Am I right?"

Dean looks at his Horseman brother and nods silently.

"Just a guess." Tiesen doesn't seem concerned one way or another. "If I were laying in wait for us, I'd do the same thing."

"What's the play, Dean?" Sam's voice is calm, quiet. He looks rock steady. They all do.

Dean turns towards Samirah. He gathers up her reins and swings into the saddle. It's an unspoken signal. Everyone mounts up.

"I go in-" Dean says. Samirah rumbles angrily. She turns her head and stares at him.

He grins at her, half hearted and cheesy. "We go in. _We_ do. Okay?"

_Damn right we do. _

"Samirah and I go in. We raise a little hell. Make 'em focus on us. The rest of you stay cloaked."

"And then?"

Dean smiles, bright and feral. "If these sonsofbitches want a show, I say we give 'em one."

_**A/N:**_ Next post: Tuesday, the 16th.


	47. Chapter 47

**A/N:** It's Tuesday. We're back.

* * *

**_Chapter 47_**

The gods stop.

They turn towards in one motion, and stare at the city of bright lights and sin with cool, unblinking eyes.

Even poor, newly dead Quetzalcoatl is forgotten. His remains lie pale green and lifeless on the coarse desert sand. Up on the hillside Kali stands up, raises her arms towards the pitch black sky. She closes her eyes, tilts her head back.

"He's killing them," she whispers softly. "Wiping them out of existence."

The worst is yet to come, and Kali's smile stretches wide and bloody.

* * *

Dean's whole focus is narrowed down now, twin tracks of sensation layered one on top of another. He leans forward in the saddle as Samirah runs full out, dodging abandoned cars and trucks in the road with ease and grace. No screams or pleas of the dying this time, just the sky above and that heady feeling of power, of togetherness. He can't tell where he ends and Samirah begins, and that's just as well. He loses himself in the stretch and snap of her long legs underneath her, her effortless gigantic stride, the creak of saddle leather, the rapid expansion and exhale of her lungs with each step. Ears pricked, she runs flying, low to the ground, her long swanlike neck stretched full out, that thick mane and tail of hers like a proud flag behind her. All that and the bob of her delicately chiseled head and the rolling thunder of her hooves striking the pavement are music to Dean's ears, the eternal melody of the Horsemen, the one he was born to, even before he ever became a Winchester.

The other track of sensations isn't quite so poetic.

Flashing red and blue lights, radio chatter, panicked human voices and the roar of high-powered engines behind them. Automatic weapons fire stitches through the air at the black horse and her rider.

One mile until they hit the city limits, and somehow every hunter and cop in the area has mobilized to stop them. No surprise, really. There's a heightened perception in the world now. Before this humans would have ignored or discounted what they couldn't understand. Not any more. Now they have a sense of what's coming. Jo and Ash saw through the cloak back at the Roadhouse, after all. Seems like Las Vegas knew the Horsemen were coming. At least, some parts of Vegas did.

A tractor trailer stretches across the highway. Twelve hunters stand atop the trailer, and Dean smirks a little as he sees the white devil's trap spray-painted on the side. The hunters atop the trailer rise up, aim and fire.

Samirah doesn't even break stride. If anything, her forward motion increases.

The gunfire increases as more and more of them rise to a standing position, use their cars, trucks and deserted vehicles as cover. They take aim and fire as Samirah flashes by. The rounds are special loads: silver, consecrated iron, salt, holy water. They're throwing everything but the kitchen sink.

They don't have anything to lose, and they know they don't have a chance in hell of surviving this.

They do it anyway.

Dean knows in another life he would have been right beside them, defending his family and friends, his city. Instead, he's the one they're fighting against, because right now, he and his horse are the kinds of things he and his family used to hunt.

Poetic irony is a cold-blooded bitch in heat.

Dean wonders what his dad would think if he ever saw him again like this. Wonders if his mom would be disappointed in him for leading Sam down this path.

Dean's sight goes three hundred sixty degrees around him. The hunters are human shaped flares of orange, red and yellow heat in the darkness. Fifty heat flares in all. Each one represents someone's father, daughter, brother, some loved one who came out here to fight Death, or at least slow him down a little.

Time to send them all on their way.

Dean widens his perception. He grabs hold of all them with his mind. They're spread out all around, in a wide loose circle. Distance doesn't matter. Nothing does.

Weapons clatter to the ground.

The orange flares wink out, one by one, the orange yellow and red flaring to bright copper.

Sirens warbling, the driver-less cars skid and slide to a halt, bumping and crashing into each other.

Ten feet away from the tractor trailer roadblock, the black horse and rider are a streak of black lightning now. The sky overhead rumbles as they disappear from sight.

The roadside is empty. There's no life out there now.

* * *

Down in the darkness of the Pit, Abaddon smiles to himself, impossibly wide and hideous. Hoofbeats vibrate through the earth like thunder. He stares up at the roof of the Pit, and he can almost see them, horse and rider, splendidly black and impossibly perfect, galloping towards their destiny and their doom.

_Come, little brother. Come._

* * *

_North..._

Tiesen picks his targets. The armed men in black patrolling the yard are a given. They're only human, anyway. That demon crouched down inside that young boy is another matter entirely. It's one of the oldest black eyes Tiesen has ever seen. He can see its dark shape in the air around he child.

Ajani paws the ground, tosses his head. He won't fuss much more than that. Tiesen waits, cloaked and unseen, and he waits for his brother's signal.

_South..._

Rika waits.

She watches the angels prowl around the bus yard, sees black eyed demons possess some of these clueless church folk, and if ever there was proof that the world has changed, this would have to be it.

The spot Rika stands in is a blind spot in everyone's perception. Actaeon whickers softly and nuzzles the side of Rika's face. That brings a quiet smile to her face.

She watches the red-haired angel woman striding through the crowd of humans, appraising each and every one with a cold smile. They're not people anymore, just a means to an end, wood for her unholy fire. At one time this angel was probably a wide-eyed innocent, and it occurs to Rika that everyone changes, sooner or later.

_East..._

Chale watches the family, half demon, half angel, and he wonders about having a family of his own someday. He remembers the shocked look Ellen's daughter gave him. He thinks of Bastet – of Boo Boo – back at the Roadhouse, figures that he'll probably catch hell from Ellen for not letting her in on the joke. Bastet's another story. She'll make him pay for that Boo Boo remark. He has no doubt of that.

That brings a grin to Chale's broad face. He and Ishmael stand quietly. Patiently.

_West..._

Sam Winchester dismounts. Nahele turns his head and lips at his rider's hand. Sam smiles a little as he strokes the long muscular curve of his horse's neck. He's nervous; they both are. Sam and Nahele stand shielded in a far corner of the parking lot. Humans sit obediently in the buses around them, and Sam hears snatches of conversation, hears whispers about how this is God's will, and the angels have promised them all a heavenly reward. Sam feels like unloading on the angels and the demons right then and there, but he and Nahele know that nothing is going to happen until Dean meets Lillith at the Mirage water volcano near Treasure Island.

Rika, Tiesen and Chale let Sam have his pick of targets.

Sam chose Castiel's lot.

Sam watches the angel as he crouches atop the school bus nearest the gate. The bastard looks downright predatory. With that sharp glint in his eyes and cruel smirk he doesn't look like any loving, peaceable angel Sam ever prayed to.

This is for Dad, Sam thinks to himself. And for me. For the time we spent locked up in that damn dollhouse. For anyone who believed the hype about these bastards.

Too bad Uriel's dead and gone. Dean saw to that, and Samirah finished the job, but right now, as far as Sam's concerned, Castiel will do just fine.

* * *

_There's more,_ Henry Lawson thinks to himself.

He's seen plenty of strange things working security at Busch Stadium in St. Louis. He's walked up on lovers who were too cheap (or way too horny) to wait until they reached a hotel or motel. He's seen all manner of wildlife, river rats, feral cats, and there was even that poor little doe who wandered into the place one night. He never did find out how she got past the locked gates.

Henry stands quietly, staring out at the empty baseball field.

Well, not so empty now. Even as he watches, bodies appear in the center of the field. They blink into view surrounded by this weird copper light. Each and every one's stretched out on their backs, arms down by their sides. First a row of ten, and then another ten down below that in quick succession. Henry's pretty darn sure that some of them are women. He sees police uniforms too, about five of 'em.

_What the hell?_

Lawson's curiosity finally gets the better of him as the thirtieth body appears. The nearest one is a woman with curly dark auburn hair, wearing faded denim.

She looks like she's sleeping. No blood, no bruises. Not a scratch on her, as far as he can see.

Henry shrugs to himself. _What the hell._

Lawson unsnaps his holder, pulls his pistol and. He keeps his weapon down by his side. No need to get totally movie stupid about this. If this were a movie he'd be in the audience groaning, "Don't go over there, you damn fool."

Henry goes anyway.

He eases over, kneels down, and gently puts his fingers against the soft underside of the woman's throat. Her skin's warm, if a little tingly.

Slow pulse.

She's still alive.

When he pulls his hand away he can almost see little pinpoints of copper light flinging to his fingertips, but they fade away after a second or two.

Lawson raises his head and looks, really looks this time, at the other people. He sees the slight rise and fall of their chests. As soon as he registers the simple fact of their breathing, they become people to him now, not bodies.

More people materialize on the field all around him. Lawson sits back on his heels and watches as two more rows of ten sleepers appear.

* * *

"I don't think you have to worry about finding the Apocalypse," John says grimly. "It found us." What he sees outside the glass windows makes his palms itch, for a shotgun filled with rock salt, a blessed silver knife, a flask filled with holy water. There are shapes in the clouds, long boiling coils of purplish black smoke.

"We can't just stay here," Mary says. She looks around the furnished room, obviously taking inventory, seeing what could be used as a weapon. Pastor Jim, Caleb and the Campbells feel the same way. They're hunters, after all. Standing around like this is against their nature.

John draws the curtains but he stands there keeping on eye on what's out there. He can feel the invisible wards in the glass, but how long can they hold up against The End of All There Is?

"You have to," Tessa replies. "At least for the moment. This building is protected. It's the safest place in Las Vegas."

She's wrong, of course.

* * *

Vegas looks like hell.

Even though the electricity is still on, the city of bright neon lights seems dimmer somehow. The wind that whistles down the deserted streets is tinged with sulfur. It howls and snarls like a live thing, curving around the corners of the buildings, rustling and snapping at the branches of the trees nearby. Dean glances up as Samirah slows to a walk. They both see the flash of white feathers in the clouds above. Angels. No surprise there.

The hunter with the rocket launcher _is _a surprise.

He pops up from the roof fifty yards away, aims and fires. The projectile detonates inches away from Dean's left boot and stirrup. There's no direct impact, but the result is still the same.

An immense mushroom cloud blooms in the air around Dean and Samirah, hiding them completely from sight. Dark orange fire curls like a flower opening its petals as the air around them is sucked in to feed the flames. The concrete underneath Samirah's hooves cracks and burns. Fire flows over Dean's skin, cards his spiky dark blond hair. Flames coalesce in the folds of his night black clothing. The inferno cascades over Samirah's sleek black hide, rustles her long mane and tail lovingly.

_Huh, _she thinks mildly. Her ears twitch back and forth. _It's warm out._

_Yeah. _Dean sits chilly in the saddle. _It's nice. _

Samirah's coat and Dean's clothing glow so blackly, no light escapes. Then, ever so slowly, the flames dissipate, disappear into the blackness like water soaked up by a dry sponge.

Dean's eyes flash copper. The Good Samaritan on the rooftop disappears, along with the other two hunters on the opposite rooftops who acted as his spotters.

At Busch Stadium, near half a country away, Henry Lawson watches bemused as three more Sleeping Beauties appear on the already crowded baseball diamond.

Samirah's getting restless. She's been patient so far, but Dean knows her patience is coming to an end. She doesn't appreciate being shot at without being able to fight back, and truth to tell, Gaelen and Dean don't either.

_We got the boring part._ Samirah tries hard not to yawn.

_Sorry. I'll make it up to you, princess. _

Samirah tosses her head. _You're not going to do that martyr thing again._

_Uh, what?_

_If we go, we go together. _Samirah shakes her head. The metal of her bridle jingles. Oddly enough, it's a light, cheerful sound.

_Damn. Am I that obvious?_

Samirah turns her head and stares at him hard for a moment. _Yes, you are._

Treasure Island and the Mirage are straight ahead. Samirah walks forward out of the crater, steps over the cracked pavement almost daintily. Her hooves leave molten tracks in the concrete, and later on photos of the crater were widely distributed on the internet as proof that Lucifer himself walked up from Hell. Just goes to show how wrong people can be.

_Hey, Dean?_ Sam sounds amused by what he's seen so far.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Anything to change the subject. _Yeah, Sam?_

Samirah _hmphs_. She's not fooled, and this _won't_ be the end of it.

_We're in position. We'll move when you give the signal. Uh, Dean?_

_Yeah? _

_You wanna share with the class exactly what this signal is gonna be?_

Dean rumbles laughter as he and Samirah fade out of sight. _Dude. You'll know it when you see it._

* * *

Lillith rocks back and forth inside her stolen flesh.

_Dean loves me. He's never stopped loving me. We can be happy again. I know we will..._

She knows that she's not the one driving right now _(filthy, vile little beast, how dare she take over like that!)_ but she can still imagine what her body felt like. Maybe if she claws her way out, then Dean can see how much she _really_ loves him.

_He loves me..._

A long slash mark opens down the side of her jaw, then closes back up again in the slow beat of her unnatural heart.

In real time, the vair lopin parasite doesn't notice. She blinks. That's all.

_He loves me not..._

Another long scar, this time down her side, underneath that slinky white dress.

_He loves me..._

* * *

Things never go the way they're supposed to go, not even during the Apocalypse.

The damn buses broke down.

The demon rages inside its newly acquired skin. The woman is young, athletic, a member of Las Vegas' Finest, a motorcycle cop with five years on the force. Any other time the demon would stop to enjoy the feel of the warm body around it, and it goes without saying that someone would die while it inhabited the body. Policeman have such wonderful toys. It doesn't indulge itself. Not now. They're on a timetable, after all, and all these meat monkeys are already spoken for.

Four yellow school buses sit on either side of the street. All four have broken down at once. It's not sabotage, just shoddy maintenance. Folks just don't take pride in their work anymore, the demon thinks to itself.

The demon folds its arms as it stands in the middle of the street, watches intently as the armed men in black herd the human cattle out of the buses and onto the sidewalks.

"Come on! We'll have to walk you down there. Now move it!"

The air behind it ripples, and the demon freezes. It feels power. Ancient and new, barely restrained and tightly controlled all at once. No sense in running from this. There's no place to run to. The demon turns, ready to unhinge its vessel's jaws and flee in a moment's notice.

_Well now._

"Hello, Death," the demon purrs.

The Horseman sits that great black beast proudly. These two radiate power. They're way above his pay grade, probably on a par with the Morning Star himself. But hey, they're all on the same side, right? Demons and angels are working together this day, and who would have thought of that?

The Horseman stares at the armed men in black, and something dark flickers in those moss green, gold and copper colored eyes.

"You like that, huh?" The demon grins at the horse and rider. Everyone has their role to play, and there's no doubt that death and destruction follow these two where ever they go.

"You go on in there and make us proud, y'hear?" It stands up ramrod straight, gives them a fancy salute, her fingers brushing the front of her motorcycle helmet.

"Pride this, bitch," the Horseman snarls.

The air around the gunmen blazes copper as they disappear all at once. The demon jerks back startled, but it's too little, too late. Its black eyes widen in surprise and rage. "You can't-you not supposed to-"

The Horseman is already there, standing right next to him. Pale golden light from that glowing right hand flares, and when the light touches the vessel, it dies, shocked and amazed.

* * *

The field at Busch Stadium in St. Louis is getting pretty crowded by now. The first cop car pulls up just as the last sleeper hits the ground. Noses and ribs break on impact.

They'll live.

Samirah nods in satisfaction. Dean's not gentle this time, not like he was with the hunters. She felt his thoughts about them, even though she didn't quite understand it. Those people were heroes.

These are scum.

Dean holds the woman in his arms like they're lovers. He places his right hand against her chest and the power of the Colt flares up, sinks deep into her skin. He knows the woman's name and story (Jackie Donahue...her mom died last year) as soon as he touches her. She's an innocent, she didn't ask to be possessed, and this time he's careful. The demon hisses as it pours out of her skin. Black smoke is backlit by soft golden light, and within seconds the smoke fades to grey and then vanishes altogether.

Officer Donahue blinks. Her eyes are hazel again. She stares at him intently, as though she's memorizing his face to pick out of a line-up later.

_Huh,_ Dean thinks to himself. _How come I never got arrested by a cop who looks like that? She looks pretty good in that uniform._

Samirah picks up the thought and shakes her head._ Oh, please._

"You okay?"Dean says out loud.

To her credit, Donahue doesn't make a move towards the gun at her hip."You're a Horseman, right?" she says coolly. She doesn't seem to be all that disturbed by such close contact.

Dean nods. "Yes ma'm, I am."

Samirah steps up right next to Dean. She looks at Donahue and huffs loudly, as if to leave no doubt who Dean really belongs to. That earns Samirah an amused glance from the cop, and then she stares up at Dean again.

"Thought you were supposed to end all this."

Dean's grin is wicked sharp. "Don't believe the hype."

"I think I better get back to work." Donahue sighs regretfully, then nods down at Dean's arms. "You, uh, mind?"

"Oh. Sorry."Dean lets go and steps back.

"So you're not going to destroy the world. You got a plan?"

"I'm making this up as I go along."

The cop rolls her eyes. "Gee, that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside."

"Sorry. I got nothin' else." Dean shrugs.

The morning so far has been buckets of crazy. Black skies overhead, demons and angels working together. What happens next is just one more bucket full.

Dean feels it first, a high pitched vibration that tears at the back of his skull. Samirah reacts, rumbling angrily to herself as she turns in the direction of whatever this is.

A tall blonde in a slinky white dress fades into view on the sidewalk in front of the first bus. The crowd shrinks back, their faces pale and fearful. They might not know exactly what she is, but they know she's not human.

"Sonofabitch," Dean whispers. "Lillith."

Donahue's eyes widen. She steps back and unholsters her pistol.

"Thought that was you, handsome. I'm right down the street. Don't keep me waiting, Dean." Lillith smiles toothily at the people around her. "If I get bored I might decide to eat something."

She vanishes in a flare of white static.

Donahue looks at Dean wide-eyed. "What the hell was _that_?"

"You gotta go. Right now."

"Go where? And how?"

Dean nods at Samirah. "This is Samirah. She'll get you out."

Samirah's eyes widen in shock._ I'll – what? _

_We need to get them out of here,_ Dean says silently. _I need you to go with them. Get them clear._

Samirah lays her ears back._ I knew you were going to do this! I knew it! I'm not leaving you._

_You're not leaving me. _

_I'm not? What do you call this?_

_Get them to that safe place and then come straight back._

Samirah sighs heavily. _That white house?_

Dean nods.

Samirah shakes her head ruefully. _Make it fast before I change my mind. _

"You going to let us in on the conversation?" Donahue looks from the horse to the rider and back again.

Dean gestures at the people all around. "Get 'em back on the buses. You're leaving. Right the hell now."

Less than a minute later Dean Winchester stands alone on that stretch of the Vegas strip. Samirah's gone. The buses and the crowds are gone, whisked away in a flash of black lightning.

Dean turns in Lillith's direction, gathers himself, and fades out.

* * *

The streets and sidewalks around Treasure Island and the volcano at the Mirage is packed with people. The crowd overflows onto the streets. There are hundreds of them. Maybe thousands, and they're not human. Not any more.

Dean sees black eyes all around, and that makes his right hand curl up into a fist. They turn and smile at him as he fades in, that same cheerful, confident smile the demon in the lady cop smiled.

_We know you'll do us proud, Horseman. Welcome to the show._

* * *

Next post: Saturday


	48. Chapter 48

_**Chapter 48**_

Dean glances up at the huge pirate skull in the Treasure Island display sign and just the sight of the damn thing makes his right hand curl up into a fist. He's not even aware of that. Jolly Roger is a huge, jaunty looking sonofabitch, with that red, blue and yellow bandanna. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but it seems like the damned thing is winking at him. He doesn't like that wide grin on its face, and the colors seem too bright, the yellowish white of the bone is too damn realistic, even though there's no moon overhead and the only light is from the streetlights and the faint yellow glow from the water volcano next door.

"Mister! Hey, Mister!"

The demon ridden meatsuits stare at him expectantly. Dean turns in the direction of the voice. The woman is tall with a short cap of straight red hair and freckles. The man standing beside her is short, balding, and wider. They're both dressed in casual clothes and their eyes are normal. He can tell they're not possessed, but they're definitely as crazy as hell. Dean scowls at the camera on the guy's shoulder.

_Un-freaking-believable._ Demons all around, the end of the world is near, and these idiots are out here looking for a sound bite?

"You're...you're Death, right?" the woman says cheerily, and the words sound strange coming out of her mouth, especially in that friendly, chirpy tone of voice.

Dean nods warily. "Sometimes I am."

The camera guy aims the camera at Dean's face, and the light on top of the damn thing shines directly into his eyes. The urge to lash out is almost unbearable, and he struggles with it. Dean steps back and the dude takes another step forward, tracking him with the camera. His eyes adjust to the light, but it still pisses him off.

"Sonofabitch…get that damn camera out of my face," Dean snarls.

The possessed ones stand all around, black eyed and grinning. It's obvious from the start that having two unpossessed humans around really doesn't matter in the scheme of things. If they were going to kill or possess these two they would have done it already. Dean gets it. No need to possess them anyway, and he has no doubt they're on a live feed back to the station, and beyond that, the rest of the country.

Several of the demons in back of Dean whoop and wave at the camera like college kids on spring break. The possessed meatsuit on Dean's left (a middle-aged casino security guard by the name of Wilfred Harris) grins for the camera and mouths "Hi, Mom."

"Where's your horse?" the woman reporter says. "You ride that big black one, don't you?"

Dean stares at her, hard and intense.

"I'm Sera Beeson from KVCW-TV," the redhead continues. "This is Rick Gamble." Gamble nods calmly. Apparently he doesn't know how close he came to getting his camera reduced to molten slag, and that would have been just for starters.

"We want to do an interview with you," Beeson chirps.

"Don't you have better things to film?"

Beeson grins. "Nope. You're news. Where are the other four? There_ are_ five of you, right?"

"Don't have time for this," Dean growls darkly. "Get out of here while you can. Things are gonna get ugly out here."

She quirks an eyebrow at the demons all around. "In case you haven't realized, things already are."

_Dean?_

Lillith.

_Come here, Dean. _

Dean turns on his heel and walks towards the thought voice. He feels a sharp flash of self-hatred for the way he immediately responds to the bitch's voice, like he's still her well-trained dog, her Horseman a a leash.

He doesn't 'port Beeson and Gamble out to safety, and to this day he still doesn't know why.

* * *

Alastair flits from one meatsuit to another in Dean's wake. As a reward for his good service, Lord Lucifer granted him a simple, special power. He can leap frog now, possess a human with a mere look now, and leave just as quickly the same way. It's an ability he might have to put to good use.

At one point Winchester turns and stares intently at the people behind him.

Alastair freezes. He sinks deeper inside his stolen skin.

After a long moment, the Horseman turns and continues walking.

The boy's on edge. That tense expression and body language tells it all. Even these dim-witted demons pick up on the tension in the air. Dean Winchester is fighting his true nature. He wants to lash out even though he knows that's the last thing he should do.

If Winchester is feeling this way, it's a sure bet the other Horseman probably are too. Nature versus nurture, and nature will certainly win out.

Alastair moves to the far edge of the crowd. He misses his workroom, briefly considers going back down to Hell and watching the action from there, but there's nothing like having a ringside seat for the action.

* * *

Abaddon tilts his massive pale head up towards the roof of the pit. Even in the darkness the bone of his skull glows with a satin sheen, smoothing out the pockmarks and cracks that stretch over the wide expanse.

He closes his eyes and sniffs.

_Yesss…._

Winchester is a darkly shining light up there, just beyond the boundary. Dark energies swirl around him, copper and gold, millions of deaths, countless destruction, past and present.

There's life too,

That makes Abaddon draw back a little.

It's light and laughter _(HiDaddyhey Deanohowyoudoin'today Buddy)_, family, love _(gonnabeabig brother Mommy) _and hardship, scents and smells of baked cookies and sunlight, silver and salt, spilled blood, broken bones and grief, heavy and bitter, mixed with almost unbearable loss.

Disgusting.

* * *

The crowd parts like the Red Sea as Dean walks up.

Lillith is there, all right, dressed in white, leaning over the railing with her arms folded neatly in front of her. She stands with her back to him, and he could almost imagine how easy it would be, just to walk up behind the bitch and gank her right then and there. That dress hugs her curves in all the right places, and Dean could almost forget what she _really_ is, and why he's _really _there.

_Almost._

Dean leans on the railing beside her. He glances at her, takes it all in, every detail about her, and then looks away. The sound of the water lapping against the concrete below is strangely soothing. The Treasure Island ship creaks as it sways slightly at its moorings across the concrete pond. It's deserted now. The sky above is pitch black, and since the shows at Treasure Island always take place at night, for a moment Dean almost expects to see the pirate wannabes come out on deck. He's never seen the show, and a part of him wishes that he had. Wasn't much time to sightsee the last time he and Dad were in town four years ago. They saw a lot of the city, all right, but it was mostly back alleys and abandoned buildings. That vamp they were chasing was an old, vicious one, and it had a lot of tricks up its sleeve.

The sound of water flowing over the volcano is a low murmur. No flames, not yet, anyway.

Dean's pretty sure that will change soon enough.

He ignores Lillith, continues to stare at the hotels, the exhibits and the scenery. It's not they expect from him, and after a moment Lillith turns and looks at him. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Dean chuckles. There's no humor in the sound. "Nice."

"What?"

"How stupid do you think I am?"

Lillith blinks. "I…I don't know what you're talking about."

Dean's eye roll is classic. "You're a vair lopin, right? A bug."

She presses her lips together and stares at him.

"You're wearing her like a cheap suit to the prom. So let me get this straight, sweethart." Dean bites that last word out, and it's clear he really means, Let me get this straight, _bitch._ "You really think I'm dumb enough to think that _you're_ gonna do me some flaming favors?"

The bug gives a little shrug, tosses her hair. "Well. We had to convince her to give herself up. For the common good." She straightens up, turns, makes sure he gets a good look at her low-cut cleavage. Her eyes glaze over, change to stark white , then a glowy neon red.

"She's a gift, Dean. From us to you."

Dean straightens up, and the crowd watches intently.

"Isn't this what you've wanted all along?"

Lillith's body walks forward; the vair lopin raises her arms. "Come on, Dean. She screwed you. In more ways than one, as a matter of fact."

Dean looks away.

"She played you. Played with your emotions. Made you think she'd resurrected your father and your brother. The two people in the world who meant the most to you."

He doesn't look at her. Won't look at her. The muscles of Dean's jawline tighten. Dean right hand curls up into a fist. Not the first time this night, but the first time he's been this obvious with it. The vair lopin looks down at his right hand and smiles.

"You can't tell me you don't want this. Don't you want to hear her scream, see her bleed? There's nothing more important in the world than family. Even we know that." The demons all around nod and murmur in agreement.

The vair lopin steps closer. "She needs to die for that, Dean. She does. Gaelen may not give a damn. He's just along for the ride. If she hadn't screwed up you'd still heel at her side like a good little dog. You got your brother back, but your Dad is still out of your reach. You killed Zachariah. Heaven will _never _let your Dad out, and it's all because of Lillith. Your family's _still_ screwed up, and it's all because of her."

Dean glares at her. His right hand blazes with the power of Samuel Colt's magic. The air around him crackles with barely restrained energy that makes the demon horde around them step back. Energy radiates outward from Dean in a circular shockwave that ripples through the crowd. Black eyes take on a copper colored tint.

"You care so much about things. About the world." Lillith's voice drops into a low whisper, a genuine display of concern and even empathy. "Aren't you tired of all of that?"

She doesn't move, just stands there smiling that damned cheerful smile, and the smile gets even wider as Dean reaches out in a motion so fast it's a blur. His right hand settles around Lillith's throat. She tilts her head up, offers him the slim line of Lillith's throat. "Don't get mad, boychick. Get even."

Dean smiles coldly. "Like I said before, _bitch_. How stupid do you think I am? _Pass_."

Her eyes widen in shock. "You're-you're not gonna kill her?"

"Maybe later. I'll think about it."

The thing's got nerve, he'll give it that. She tosses her head, as much as she can with his hand around her throat. He can feel Lillith's pulse, slow and steady, against the palm of his hand.

"All right. Fine. You seem to have forgotten one thing."

"And what's that?"

"All these meatsuits around." The vair lopin leans Lillith into Dean's touch. "All these poor, innocent humans."

Dean glances around, and sure enough, there's Beeson and Gamble in the crowd, and Gamble has his camera trained on Dean and Lillith like a gunsight.

"It's either them. Or her. Your choice. If you don't kill her, right now, all these innocents will die. We'll stop their hearts, fry the electrical impulses in their brains. You decide, Dean." her smile is wide and malicious. "Your call."

Dean smiles brightly. "How about neither?"

"What?"

Dean tightens his grip, turns her head so that she can look at the crowd.

The people standing around them are human again. She sees brown eyes, green, grey. All colors.

All human.

The vair lopin stares in amazement. No more black eyes, just a crowd of dazed humans who stand around muttering to themselves. The air over their heads is filled with a thin grey smoke that echoes with inhuman shrieks and screams.

* * *

During the last seconds of his unlife, Alastair senses the wave as it roars through the ground at the crowd's feet. Demons are expelled from their vessels and they die by the thousands in the blink of an eye.

And that bug, that stupid damn bug clothed in Lillith's skin just stands there, thinking she has it all under control, and she doesn't.

Alastair exits his vessel in a hurry, a tall column of boiling black smoke that surges out of the top of the man's head through the pores of his scalp. He's quick, but Dean's power is quicker.

The Grand Inquisitor of Hell dies in an instant, staring in disbelief and panic at the pitch black sky overhead. Alastair curses Dean Winchester's name as he fades into oblivion.

* * *

_Stupid,_ Samirah thinks to herself. _Stupid! I knew he was going to do this. That damn martyr thing of his, I knew it-_

She rounds the corner of the last bus as it settles into place in this reality.

This is the safe place. Huh. It's a large field of green grass fenced in by iron and stone on all four sides. She doesn't recognize that large white house behind them, and her nostrils flare in displeasure as she scents auto exhaust in the air. She pins her ears back when he hears the traffic sounds on the street beyond the furthest fence.

The doors of the buses open up and the people come pouring out. They're excited, chattering among themselves.

Samirah snorts, tosses her head. She doesn't expect any thanks for bringing them here, knows that these humans will certainly blame her and Gaelen for this whole damn mess. So be it. Not the first time she's been blamed for something, certainly won't be the last.

She doesn't expect what happens next.

A little brown-haired girl walks up to her. This one's name is Abagail Spicer. In the bad old days this kid would have barely made a decent mouthful. She smiles at Samirah, and the warmth even reaches the child's eyes.

"Thank you," Abagail whispers softly. "Thank you for saving my family."

It's a first in her long life. Death's Eternal Apocahorse is at a loss for words. All she can do is stare wide-eyed at the kid. Samirah flicks her ears back and forth, composes herself, and then rumbles aloud "You're…you're welcome."

Damn humans…they never do what she thinks they're going to do. Even that lady cop is standing there smiling at her with this fond look on her face.

Samirah's not sure she likes that.

The others mumble their thanks, and Samirah notices for the first time that they're all around her. That makes her nervous for some reason, even though she knows they're only human and they can't hurt her. Her tack reappears in a crackle of icy blue lightning as she backs up, then moves forward.

It's time to go. She wants to run. Needs to.

The crowd opens a path in front of her, and Samirah moves even faster.

* * *

Secret Service Agent Nedra Thomas stares at the scene through the scope of her sniper rifle. She can hear the confused chatter over the coms in her earpiece. She's been on security detail at the White House for three years now, and no one has ever seen anything like this. Black lightning from a clear sky overhead, school buses filled with civilians that popped in out of thin air, for God's sake.

The most striking thing about the scene is that horse.

She's never seen one that big, with those distinctive, unearthly copper eyes. She's seen the video of the Horsemen, hell, by now everyone has, and if any animal could run on water like that, she has no doubt that this one could.

Thomas tracks the animal with her rifle, feels her finger tighten on the trigger. Clear shot, green light, and who would blame her if she pulled the trigger.

She doesn't.

Neither does the rest of her team. Thomas shifts the scope to the license plates on the school buses. Nevada plates.

Thomas gets it then. This is an evacuation. An evac. From _somewhere_ in Nevada, to _here_.

Still no shots fired. People are waving at the horse.

Thomas watches the great black horse clear the crowd. It stretches out like a black cat sunning itself on a window somewhere, disappears in a blaze of copper light, just as her team leader's voice crackles in her ear.

"Thomas, what the hell is going on out there?"

Agent Thomas smiles to herself. "Sir, you're not going to believe this."

* * *

_Clever boy,_ Abaddon thinks to himself. The Angel of the Pit raises up on his hands and knees. The earth around him shakes. He slams his back against the bottom of the seal over his head.

Once, twice.

The seal cracks, and Abaddon pushes against it again.

* * *

To be continued next week.


	49. Chapter 49

_**A/N: **__Appointment in Samara_, huh? Samirah doesn't like that. Yep, I've been Kripke'd. I'll return the favor before this is over.

_**POSSIBLE MAJOR SPOILER ALERT:**_ I really liked that episode, because it highlighted one of the things I love about Dean: he may screw up, but he owns his mistakes and does what he can to make things right. I think he won Death over by putting the ring back on and finishing the job.

_**A/N #2:**_ To the folks who PM'd me: I am not going to rush the ending to this. I've read too many fanfics in which the final confrontation is so quick and so sloppy that I really felt cheated. I would like to see some spectacle for once, and I think you would too. Anyway, I need to set things up for the sequel. Think about it: writers have an unlimited budget, bigger than Cameron or Spielberg. We're limited only by our imagination. I know you guys are gonna tell me whether I nailed it or if this is an epic fail. Some of you folks aren't going to read _Black Horse_ until it's complete; that's your prerogative. Glad to have you aboard. BTW: Dean first met Abaddon back in Chapter 27; Dean met God in Chapter 41.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment purposes only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 49 **_

He's never met them in person, but he knows their work.

Credit card fraud. Assault. Grave desecration. Attempted murder. Unlawful Flight To Avoid Prosecution.

Just as he's done nearly every morning for the last three years, Special Agent Victor Hendrickson starts his day with a simple ritual. He sits in his office and pulls photos from the Winchester case file.

John Winchester is first. He always is. Hendrickson isn't interested in pictures of the young dark haired Marine fresh from 'Nam. He never pulls out any of the four candids of the man, photos taken at backyard barbeques or at the garage Winchester co-owned. What Hendrickson always pulls out first is a mug shot. Papa has three; which one doesn't matter. All of them were taken in some sheriff's department in Podunk, somewhere. That's the John Winchester Victor Hendrickson is most interested in now: the killer, the survivalist. Whatever happened that November night drove him over the brink into madness. It was only natural he pulled his boys down with him.

There's an order to this. Sam's next.

He was the most salvageable one, the one social services should have gotten out of the house and away from his crazy backwoods father and his damaged older brother quick fast and in a hurry. That would have happened sooner or later, but Winchester never stayed in one place too long. Hendrickson stares at Sam's student photo IDs. Kid seems happy enough, a big shaggy puppy with bright blue green eyes, but Hendrickson's not fooled. Odds are the mental damage was already done by the time Sam went to Stanford. Jessica Moore burned to fine grey ash one night, just like Mary Winchester did. Maybe Sam's temper runs hot just like John's might. Maybe that Moore girl pissed him off one night, and Sam decided to show her exactly how he felt about that.

Dean's last. He always is. He stares up at Hendrickson with that slightly lopsided smirk, that don't-give-a damn glint bright and fierce in his eyes. Like Papa, Dean's three photos are mug shots. Seems jail is the only way Winchester and his eldest son can stay in one place for too long. The idea of a local jail being able to contain a Winchester, even Sam, is ridiculous.

If Hendrickson has anything to say about it, a supermax facility will be their home for the rest of their lives, once they're taken into custody. He's never met them, not in person, not yet, anyway, but he's sure that day will come. Soon.

It could be said that John's the monster, and Sam and Dean his willing victims, especially Dean. According to medical records from DFS, Dean had been hospitalized on a pretty regular basis as a kid, through his teens. Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Winchester beat the boy. John boy apparently wasn't shy about using knives and other sharp instruments on his eldest boy, either. Doesn't justify any of this, but Dean looks like he can be quite a handful.

Hendrickson sits and stares at each photo in turn.

There were rumors that John and Sam were dead, killed in some hole named Devil's Gate, Wyoming. Dean was supposedly maimed up there too. Lost his right hand, at least, that's what some of the informants claimed. It's all just words, and Hendrickson doesn't believe any of it. He believes what he can see or feel.

John Winchester's body lying on a slab in a morgue somewhere.

Dean or Sam Winchester shackled to an interrogation table, brought to ground at long last.

That's something solid. Something real.

Everything else can be discounted. Some witnesses claimed the Winchesters helped them. Saved them from some unimaginable evil. Well, Ted Bundy had his groupies, too. And then there's always Stockholm Syndrome.

That Horseman video? It's a nice enough effect, something that easily could have been created by Industrial Light and Magic no less. Where that particular flight of fancy came from Vic Hendrickson neither knows nor cares. He's seen the close-ups of Dean riding that huge black horse, close-ups of Sam and his great spotted beast. No positive IDs on the other two, the black man and the young girl. Doesn't matter. Hendrickson doesn't believe a word of it.

The Winchesters have gone off the grid, that's all.

Hendrickson looks up with a scowl as the door to his office swings open. Ordinarily that look would been enough to stop anyone (up to the Director) from coming in, but Paul Reidy ignores him. Reidy walks in, goes right over to the television in the corner and turns it on. He doesn't even close the door behind him, which earns him another, darker glare. Hendrickson can see out into the offices; groups of people crowd around televisions and computer screens. That's unusual, even this early in the morning.

"What?"

"Live feed from Las Vegas," Reidy says drily.

"I'm not in the mood for some morning show fluff piece," Hendrickson growls.

"Oh, I think you'll want to see this," Reidy says with a grin. He grabs the remote, punches some buttons and leans against the wall.

The images are blurry at first. The camera jerks down towards the ground, and all Hendrickson sees is legs, feet, and pavement. He huffs to himself. He's not amused and he's not impressed.

"Is there a point to this? We've got work to do," he says shortly.

Reidy smiles like he knows the punchline to a really good joke, and he can't wait for the big reveal. "Just hold on. Wait for it."

The scenes that follow are jerky, disjointed, images of black smoke or night sky, and it's really hard to tell which is which. What look like faces push out into the open air, eyes and mouths stretched wide in fear and panic. The purplish black color fades to pale grey, then wisps of dead white smoke.

Another stomach turning downward lurch, and Hendrickson wonders how anyone could even stand to watch this for very long.

"Cloverfield?" Hendrickson rolls his eyes. "Seriously?"

"Look closer, Vic," Reidy smirks as the camera steadies and focuses on a man and a woman standing a few feet away, by the railing. The man has his right hand around the woman's throat, and that hand doesn't look quite right.

It glows.

Hendrickson's eyes narrow. _What the hell is this?_

The woman looks like a really glammed up version of Marilyn Monroe or Madonna, from the blonde hair right down to the form fitting white dress and impossibly high heels. The agent rolls his eyes when he sees the get-up the man is wearing. All black, like something Keanu Reeves wore in The Matrix, only this Neo wanna-be has on a hooded black leather coat to match. The cameraman goes in for a close-up of his face, and the image sharpens to crystal clarity.

Reidy smirks. "Does that dude in black look familiar to you?"

Hendrickson stares, and for a moment he forgets to breathe.

Dean Winchester. In the flesh this time.

* * *

Lillith's eyes go wide and horribly glassy. The bug's submerged inside her skin now. Any minute the big bitch herself is going to come surging out.

Dean tightens his grip around her slim neck and waits for it. He waggles the fingers of his left hand in front of her eyes. "Wakey wakey, hell bitch."

Nothing.

"Come on, wavy gravy. Let's get this show started." He thumps the tip of her nose once with his thumb and forefinger.

Not even a blink. Huh.

Her skin is cool, marble slick and smooth underneath the firefly paleness of his right hand. Maybe it's because he's touching her like this, but Dean can hear the screams of the thousands of humans she's devoured over the ages. They were drawn to her like moths to a flame.

He could 'port her out, of course, drop her horrific ass _somewhen_ else, but_ that's_ not an option. Lillith's one of the Old Ones. She's probably forgotten more dark magic than other beings can ever remember. Chances are pretty good she could bust out from _whenever_ he exiled her to. And once she got out into the world again, people would die. Again. Dean's sure of it.

The last thing he needs now is more blood on his hands, and considering he's the Death Horseman, that joke's not very funny. Lillith wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her people turning against her, and the vair lopin inside her. He didn't even have to hunt her down. Dean's not going to throw away a gift like that.

But he's not going to kill her. Not here. Not yet, anyway. It's what they _want_ him to do. It's what's expected.

"We all have our roles to play," the demon Azazel told Dean as Gaelen once.

So be a good little Horseman, kill this bitch, break the seal and jumpstart the Apocalypse.

_Fuck that. This is a brand new day._

His Horseman birthright of power sings underneath his skin. It's older than Dean and Gaelen combined, and they can both sense that it's amused by their reluctance to end Lillith right here and now. _She owes us a death. What does it matter how or why she came here? _

The power of Samuel Colt's special pistol rumbles inside his right hand at a slightly lower pitch. It's impatient, trembling like a guard dog on a leash. It wouldn't take much to send it blazing into Lillith's hellish hide.

"I trust you, Dean," God told him the first time they met. "I trust you more than you trust yourself." So she handed him the keys to the kingdom and skipped off to who knows where on an extended vacation. He's God's Babysitter now, and isn't _that_ a damn joke? The name and the idea makes Dean snort in derision. She not only saw him coming, She had his number all along.

_Didn't ask for this,_ Dean thinks to himself. _But I can't let it go. And I can't screw this up. I won't._

Dean glances at the crowd over his shoulder. Beeson and Gamble are still there, still filming. That damn camera is always aimed in his direction. Everyone else averts their eyes when he looks at them, and when they do look they're fearful, confused. They don't know what to make of him. They've given him a wide berth, and that is as it should be.

He is a Horseman, after all.

He can sense his sister and his brothers at four points around him. All in position, all waiting. Ajani and Tiesen are as impatient as always. Rika and Chale are as solid and dependable as Actaeon and Ishmael ever were. Sam and Nahele radiate calm.

Dean's never been so proud of _all _of them.

A barely noticeable tremor ripples through the pavement underneath his boots. The crowd doesn't notice it. Yet. Such a small thing, and it makes Dean's eyes widen. It's not Samirah. She's black lightning and rolling thunder, still a great distance away, but coming from the opposite direction. She's incoming, above ground.

This is from below.

_Release me, child… _

The voice is cold, inhuman and mocking. The ground shakes and stutters with each word. The normals stop and freeze, wide-eyed, and then they're tossed around like rag dolls as the pavement underneath their feet cracks, sending them sprawling onto the ground.

Up and down the Strip abandoned cars and trucks bounce six inches into the air. Car alarms warble their distress into the darkening air. The lights overhead flicker, and the sound of electricity sizzles and crackles.

_Release me…_

Dean stares wide-eyed at the ground. The sonofabitch is breaking the seal, all on its own.

The next tremor is even harder. Several street lights tilt towards the ground as the pavement buckles. Jagged cracks stitch across the pavement. Iron railings vibrate and then sag like overcooked spaghetti.

The Treasure Island boat bobs gently at its moorings as the water level rises, two feet, then three. The mast creaks as the boat sways in place.

Over at the Mirage water volcano the water flowing over the slate grey rocks slows to a trickle, and then stops.

Dean's eyes narrow, and the crowd behind him falls silent.

That's _not_ good.

Sewer rats pour out of the sewers nearby in droves, a thick column of dark brown bodies. Their frenzied squeaking sounds like screaming. They don't hang around. They ignore the screams and the disgusted curses of the humans and head down the street in the opposite direction, a column of dirty brown furry bodies twenty deep.

Dean releases Lillith's throat. She stares at him, through him, her muscles hard and unyielding, frozen in place. She's not going anywhere. Dean nods as he turns away.

Time to go to work.

The crowd moves back as he walks towards them. Dean stops, then extends his right hand, palm down, fingers spread.

He's barely aware of everything else. The only thing that matters is what he finds as he expands his perception downward. He sees gas lines and electrical cables underneath the street, slides effortlessly through the dank, dark sewers as the remaining rats scurry through the darkness, desperately try to escape. Dean pushes downward, through the cracks in the earth. He sees pale, ancient madness underneath, rushing up from the depths.

Dean stares in disbelief.

_Abaddon. No. _

_Hello, little brother._

_You can't be. I killed you._

Abaddon chuckles. He shifts his massive dark wings over to the side. His smile stretches impossibly wide and fearful, pale and shining in the depths as he stares up at Dean on the surface. _I forgive you. _

Dean closes his eyes. He gathers himself, gathers up everything he has inside him. The air around him vibrates, barely seen ribbons of force, faint copper and gold, as he directs his power downward. Miles beneath the surface, half a mile above Abaddon's bony skull, a thin barrier of copper and gold forms, faint at first, then stronger, as it solidifies and then stretches back all the way up to the surface. The broken concrete around Dean's feet melts and re-forms, smooth, undamaged, as sheer power radiates outward from him. The wave ripples outward from Dean's boots, flows down the sidewalk, into the street. It's barely visible underneath the water of the lagoons nearby, as it flows outward in all directions.

He has a firm anchor now. The seal's holding. Abaddon pauses in the darkness below. That hideous wide brow of his creaases into a frown. _We all have our part to play in this, brother. _

_Maybe so. But I'm not your damn brother, you sonofabitch._

_We'll see._

Something moves into his personal space on his right hand side; that royally pisses him off. It's a distraction, nearly a fatal one. Dean has to stop himself from lashing out.

If he does that, people die.

_GET THAT DAMN CAMERA OUT OF MY FACE!_ Dean roars silently.

The roar of his thought voice makes Beeson and Gamble stagger backwards.

The seal's holding, but this isn't the safest place to be.

He can do this. Hold this bastard down, send all these people away. Dean raises his left hand. Even with his eyes closed he can still see the people all around him, flares of orange and yellow heat that pulse and breathe. Each one has a story, each one is someone's mother, someone's child or daughter. Doesn't matter if they have no one to call their own, they're _here_. They're _alive._ Nobody's dying today, and Dean means to keep it that way.

_New York_, Dean thinks to himself. _The Big Apple. Central Park._

On his left hand side sixty people blink out in bright flares of copper light.

An early morning runner jogging by Cleopatra's Needle in Central Park stops and stares, frozen in shock. The woman's name is Camilla Thornton. She watches as row upon row of Vegas refugees, silent and sleeping, fade into that place. They look peaceful enough.

Camilla pulls out her cell phone and calls 911.

And now for the rest. The wave travels through the crowd on Dean's left. Beeson and Gamble back up in the opposite direction. Beeson keeps his camera trained on Dean.

_Dudes, you're next,_ Dean thinks to himself, and he's already decided that damn camera will be turned into molten slag the first chance he gets.

_Disgusting._ Abaddon murmurs softly. _Why do you do this? Why do you care about these maggots?_

_Don't worry about it, sweetheart. There's plenty of me to go around. _

It's time to give Sam and the others the signal to move. Dean reaches out with his mind. He thinks of Sam, Rika, Chale and Tiesen, and as he does so white hot agony flares in the middle of his right shoulder, travels up the side of his neck and explodes behind his eyes. The pain blots out the world.

Abaddon rumbles dark laughter.

_I tasted you before, little brother. Remember? _Abaddon purrs._ Not long ago, out in that grass field with all those pretty horses I killed. You're so close now, I can call that pain up in you any time I want. _

Dean's body turns traitor. His muscles refuse to work. His heart pounds against his chest, hard enough to make his ribs ache.

_And I can make you suffer, little one. You'll beg me to put you out of your misery before this day is done. _

The only thing Dean can see is white. He turns away from Abaddon's thought voice, stumble steps as he goes. His control falters. It slips away from him, and then he loses it altogether.

The barrier around the seal fades out.

Abaddon raises up, slams against the underside of the earth above him. The ground shakes again, setting off car alarms all over the city.

Dean's knees buckle, but he doesn't go down. He stumbles up against a warm body. His mind is overwhelmed by pain; in that moment he's blank, nearly mindless.

Slim fingers glide up his chest, then curl around the soft underside of his throat. Long, sharp fingernails dig into his flesh, a bright twisting pain that sinks down deep underneath his skin. It's different from the agony Abaddon inflicted, different and so very familiar.

_Smoke…_Dean thinks dully. _Something's…burning…_

He can't catch his breath. He tries to jerk backwards, but he's pinned there, held in place.

The faded handprint on his right shoulder twinges in recognition. This new pain courses over his muscles, scours him right down to the bone. Dean's eyes roll white as he gasps for air. What's inside his lungs now is heavy, cold enough to chill him to the bone.

Lillith holds Dean close, holds him up, belly to belly, her free arm around his waist.

"They told me you were going to kill me, Dean," Lillith coos softly. She pulls her hand away, and the sight of the new handprint on his throat makes her smile brightly.

"I knew they were lying." She brushes her cold lips against his, and then down the wounded, raised skin of her new mark. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

* * *

Evol cliffie? Of course. Don't roll your eyes at me.

Two chapters will be posted next week, starting Tuesday. _Black Horse and The Cherry Tree_ will be complete by Christmas.


	50. Chapter 50

**_A/N:_** INSERT PRIMAL SCREAM HERE. The site won't allow me to spell it out, so I have to make do.

Okay, I finally got that primal scream of anguish out of my system. Feels good.

This Author's Note may not be as entertaining as one of ThruTerry'sEyes' classics, but I'll give it a go.

Two things are certain in this life.

One: If you want to make the computer gods laugh, just tell them your plans.

Two: I HATE the dreaded Blue Screen of Death.

Let's have a moment of silence for my late, great computer. Oh Dell Optiplex 270, I barely knew ye. Even tho we'd been together for two years, I figured we had many more years together.

Obviously I figured wrong.

I was well on my way to finishing up this fic. Done by Christmas, I said. Already taking notes and making plans for the sequel. There _has_ to be a sequel. _Samirah_ said so, and I'm not arguing with Death's Eternal Apocahorse. The remaining chapters of _Black Horse and the Cherry Tree_ was in some rough draft form on my computer, but it was mostly in my head. All I needed to do was write it out, polish it up, flesh it out and post.

And then last month the dreaded Blue Screen of Death showed up.

Have I mentioned how much I hate the color blue? I have? _Oh._

That day I sat there staring at the bright blue Stop Error screen on my monitor. I took a deep breath and then…

I used cuss words that would have made Dean, Alastair, and Azazel blush.

I fiddled around with the computer some more but I knew it was a lost cause. My hard drive was DOA. Toast. Sleeping with the fishes. Bastard had bought the farm up in Hard Drive Heaven.

That called for even more cussing.

To friends.

Hell, to anyone with a pulse who would listen.

I even told my cats about it. They just stared at me. I could tell they weren't interested. Nothing I said mattered 'cause I never said the important words like "food" or "eat." Darn brats.

Well, never mind the furballs. It's good to have friends._ Good_ friends like mlebayre, who lent me her laptop until I can buy a replacement computer. If it hadn't been for her I would still be wandering around my apartment clutching my dead CPU to my chest moaning, "Wake up, damn you, wake up…"

Uh, did I just post that out in the open?

Crap.

* * *

**Chapter 50**

_Winchesters are trouble,_ Tessa thinks to herself. _Always have been, always will be._ It's a natural law of the universe, and she supposes that Dean got that stubborn streak from John and Mary. The only flaw in that theory is that_ Dean_ was _Gaelen _so long ago, and Gaelen had an equally notorious stubborn streak whenever he set his mind to something. It's a "which came first, the chicken or the egg" kind of thing. There are some mysteries in life that even as a Reaper, Tessa is content to let them be. This is one of them.

John and Mary Winchester stand there side by side, hand in hand, and they both have that legendary Winchester game face on. Tessa's not surprised when John looks at her and rumbles, "We need to get out of here. I know our boys. They're out there, somewhere."

Pastor Jim Murphy nods silently. The Campbells, Samuel and Deanna, don't say a word. It's obvious they're all in agreement. _Damn._ Things never work out the way they're supposed too, and why should the end of the world be any different? There are resources in the Imperial Palace that can be used, for defense and protection.

Caleb makes a nasty face as he steps away from the drapes. "I think we better talk about this somewhere else."

John quirks an eyebrow at him. Caleb shrugs.

"Those demons out there? They're crawling all over the window glass."

"We can talk about this on the way down," John rumbles. Tessa nods and turns towards the door.

Mary's grip on John's hand tightens. John flinches. "Jesus. What -"

He turns towards his wife. She's frozen in place, rigid, unyielding, and the stricken expression on her face stops John cold.

* * *

Mary sees Dean.

He's her firstborn, her bright and shining baby boy. She had four years with him, four wonderful years watching him grow up, and even after she died she continued to watch him as much as Heaven would allow. Mary sees Dean as a baby, sees him playing with his metal cars. He's bright and shining and happy, playing with his fire truck. The images shift, and Dean is an adult now, tall, broad-shouldered. He's dressed in black now, and he's still handsome; those fine thin scars around his right eye give him a wild, exotic beauty. He's still her son, _hers_, no matter what came before in that other life. The connection between them is so strong it would take her breath away, if she still had any. It flares up inside her, every bit as unyielding and eternal, the bond between a mother and her beloved firstborn. The sense of grief and loss Mary feels is worse than the way she felt when she died. She sees that bitch with Dean, that woman in white, and she mourns for what's to come.

Mary stares down at her right hand, and her fingers shake. "His right hand," Mary whispers softly. "She's going to take his right hand…"

* * *

On the morning of the End of Everything the population of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Area was estimated to be nearly two million, three hundred thousand, not counting the quarter of a million tourists who were also present that day. As he stood guard at the front door of Harvelle's Roadhouse, a fully loaded shotgun in hand, Ash would have known that Vegas is the brightest city in the world, as seen from space.

Well, it was. Not today anyway.

Being bright is all relative, anyway. In the days leading up to the end, only a select few knew what was coming. Most of them were of the furry and scaly variety. A few were human, but the average human is as dumb as a bag of rocks when it comes to things like that.

Don't roll your eyes. You know it's true.

The human population of Vegas experienced bad dreams filled with darkness, things with teeth and dark night skies, and they explained it all away: they shouldn't have had that left-over Chinese food before bed. It was a sinus headache, or that stupid movie on the SyFy channel they watched before they went to bed.

Approximately a thousand humans, the sensitive ones, quietly packed up and left the city with as much as they could carry, or in their cars.

The animals knew. Stray cats and dogs quietly slipped out of the area. Spiders and other insects fled the area. Racoons refused to enter the city, no matter how tasty the garbage was in the dumpsters behind the hotels up and down the strip. The word spread. The snakes wound their way out of town. The sewer rats stayed. They normally had no problem with Abaddon. That didn't come until later.

Some domestic animals fled the area, dogs and cats alike. Some tried to tell their owners, they really did, but humans are notoriously insensitive. They like normal, and are known to stare weirdness in the face and explain it all away.

The dogs stayed. So did the cats. They stared at their owners with sad, mournful eyes.

Hamsters, canaries and pet lizards all over the city died of heart attacks. Their tiny hearts couldn't handle the strain.

No one noticed then. No one connected the dots.

On the morning of The End, people hunkered down in hotel rooms and offices up and down the strip. Most of them stood in hushed silence around television sets and computer monitors in police stations, firehouses and radio and television stations alike. Some quietly slipped outside and began walking. Any place but here seemed like a mighty fine idea.

Less than two minutes after Dean Winchester killed Alastair and the other demons, some of the humans in the crowd near Treasure Island and the Mirage water volcano finally got it. The crowd was a mix of residents and tourists alike. They might not have been psychic or gifted, but they finally got it. The ground shook, rats fled in terror on the ground at their feet. That dude in black was a Horseman, and nobody needed to add "of the Apocalypse", either.

That woman in white didn't look too safe to be around, either.

The feeling of terror that rose up in some of those folks was overwhelming. They turned and ran, even though they knew deep down inside there was no where to run to.

They ran anyway.

Most of the people didn't run. They pulled out their cells and their smartphones. They took pictures of the dark sky above, and took pictures of the man in black and the woman in white. The ones who stayed texted and tweeted. They ignored that churning sensation in their gut. They weren't sure what had happened, couldn't even remember how they'd gotten there. The dark sky overhead was confusing, but there was a reasonable explanation for all of this.

There _had_ to be.

* * *

Samirah comes from the east.

The great black horse runs fully cloaked, dodging and weaving between this reality and the next. She flashes past the scores of refugees streaming out of Las Vegas on foot. They're barely aware of her at first. Samirah's a black flash of lightning just at the edge of their vision, an errant warm breeze, a prickle of static electricity against their skin.

She ignores them. Gaelen is in the city, miles ahead.

His essence shines in the darkness, bright copper and mellow gold, a blend of Horseman and human such as the world has never seen before. Everything that is Dean and Gaelen sings to her.

It's the sound of Gaelen singing one of those old songs she likes so much. His voice is lighter than Dean's but it still makes her want to dance. Dean's whiskey smooth growl makes her ears prick and her skin tingle.

Samirah changes from her left to her right lead effortlessly. She's fully connected to Dean now, barely conscious of where he begins and she ends. It goes wrong in an instant, and the change overwhelms her. She staggers, her forward motion no longer smooth and easy.

_No. No!_

White hot pain, heavy and dense, and Dean drowns in it.

Samirah drowns too.

Her massive lungs hitch uselessly. Dense white cold spreads inside her, and she breaks stride as it sinks into her bones. One more, two more strides forward, and she hears it then, a bright, quick sound. She's heard that sound before. Tree limbs break like that.

So does bone.

Pain lances up her right foreleg. She shifts her balance, reaches with her left lead again as she stretches out her neck. It's all wrong, and she knows it.

_This can't be happening_, Samirah thinks wildly to herself. _No. NO!_ She screams out in rage and agony. Momentum carries her forward, stumbling, staggering, until the ground finally rises up to meet her.

Everything goes black.

* * *

"You bitch…" Dean gasps out loud. Lillith smiles sweetly as she looks up at him. "Oh, that poor pony. I broke her. So sorry, darling."

The Spear of Destiny is tucked away in the space at his back, underneath his greatcoat. Dean feels the weight of it back there, but he can't reach it. He concentrates on his right hand, despite the burning pain in his throat and his right shoulder. All he can think about is Samirah, lying so broken and so still.

This has to end. Has to stop…

Dean slowly flexes the fingers of his right hand. The power of the Colt flares up, bright and golden. His muscles are sprung, and nothing works right. It takes an effort to raise his right arm, but he does somehow. All he has to do is reach out, grab her by the throat.

Lillith's arm around his waist tightens. Three ribs on Dean's right side shatter like brittle glass. A thunderstorm of churning white hot pain travels up his side, explodes behind his eyes. Slim white fingers grasp him by the right wrist and squeeze.

It takes an effort not to scream. He's sure he does anyway, a low muffled moan of pain and rage and loss that makes Lillith smile even wider.

"You promised you'd never hurt me with that, Dean," she purrs silkily. "You promised."

Dean stares dully at his wrist. His right hand is gone. No golden glow, no fingers, just a stump now.

"You're tired, Dean. You've had a hard day, sweetness." Dean shudders as his entire body trembles and shakes. He's weak, now more than ever. And more to the point, he's failed. He's failed Sam, and Rika and the others. He's failed Samirah. He's failed, and he might as well accept it. The voice inside his head slithers around his brain like a snake sunning itself against a rock.

Lillith nods as she goes up on tiptoe and chastely kisses the tip of Dean's nose. "You know it's true," she whispers softly. His head bobbles as he stares at her.

"You can rest now, Dean."

"….nuh…no…"

"It's all right. You can."

Dean hears another voice inside his head, rageful, as he slowly lowers his head to rest on Lillith's shoulders. He closes his eyes, and as darkness settles down on him he feels himself drift away.

"Good boy," Lillith whispers. "That's my good boy…"

_It's okay to rest now, isn't it? _Dean thinks dully to himself.

Just for a little while…

* * *

_It's a mistake, _Samirah thinks dully to herself. She's lying on her side now, and she knows that's wrong. She has to get up. She wasn't this clumsy when she was a foal running at her mother's side. All she needs to do is to catch her breath, and then she'll stand up. She'll stand up and run again, faster than light and sound, because Gaelen needs her, because Nahele and the others need her. She'll run to them, free and easy, and this won't matter. None of this will.

The dust settles, then rises again as Samirah kicks out with her legs. She sees white bone, stark and jagged against the blackness of her skin.

_Gaelen…_

She can't lift her head anymore.

_I'm coming…_

She can't feel her legs.

_I…have to…go…_

Samirah's dimly aware of the humans as they stand around her. They keep their distance from her, and that's just as well.

Her long eyelashes sweep downward, then up, once, twice. The copper fire in her eyes dims as the bitter cold inside her settles down around her like a blanket.

Samirah closes her eyes.

* * *

"She maimed him," Gamble whispers out loud. He focuses on the couple, never bothers to pull back from the camera viewfinder. "He's the bad guy, so that's a good thing, right? Right?"

"Keep filming," Beeson mutters. She has a death grip on her microphone; the skin of her knuckles is stretched thin and white. "Are you getting this? My God, are you getting this?"

Gamble doesn't even nod in response. The only things that matter now are what he sees through the lens of his camera. He's been in the zone before, ignoring his own personal safety for the sake of the video, damn it, but this time is different. This moment, whatever the hell it is, is historic. It's legendary. All he has to do is hold on and film the damn thing, and what would be simpler than that? Nothing can hurt him. Nothing would dare. Gamble never thinks about running away, or backing up, and he can tell that Beeson thinks the same way too. They've lived their lives like this, lived for the story and the images, lived life with his camera on his shoulder, and her microphone in her hand, and neither one knew they were going to die for the story too.

* * *

_Oh, this is going so well, _Lillith thinks to herself. She cradles Dean in her arms, and the solid, muscular weight of the Horseman's body against hers is a good thing. Lillith smiles up at the dark sky above. Lucifer and the others thought she was weak. They thought they were _so_ smart. They'll regret going against her. She'll make them pay. Make Heaven and Hell scream loud and long…

_Nice trick. Getting inside his head like that._

Lillith cocks her head to one side. This is something new. She glances rather anxiously at Dean. His eyes are closed, those ridiculously long sooty dark eyelashes of his dark against his pale skin. Not Dean, then. Lillith glances at the humans around her. Not them, either. They're so thick and stupid, they don't react. This voice is new to her, but she recognizes ancient power when she hears it. She experiences a moment of complete blankness, until she glances at her surroundings and realizes _where _she is.

And _who_ is buried underneath.

"Abaddon." Lillith murmurs to herself. "Thank you."

Half a mile below the cracked surface of the city streets, the Angel of the Pit laughs. The sound is full of hearty dark humor that kills hundreds of sewer rats unlucky enough, slow enough still underground.

_You can play with the nag all you want to. The boy doesn't belong to you, you know. He's mine._

"No," Lillith says out loud. She lovingly runs her left hand over Dean's strong, broad back. He's at rest now, because of her. "I have first claim."

The Angel laughs again. _No, bitch. He's Death. He was Death long before you hungered for him, little girl. I have first claim. Always._

"We'll see."

_So we shall_. Abaddon sounds bored. _I'll let you play with him. For now_.

Lillith scowls as the tall, red headed woman steps forward. It's very tempting to kill the bitch, even as the human thrusts that microphone towards Lillith's face. Still, a public declaration of her love for Dean could be very very useful. Humans are such stupid creatures.

"Miss? Miss? Who are you? What's your name?" The human woman nods at Dean. "What's _his _name?"

_Yes. Such dimwitted creatures._ "I'm Lillith. This is Dean."

"He's a Horseman. Were you aware of that?"

Ignorant bitch. "Of course I am. He loves me. Said he would ride for me forever. I was first above all in the world. My husband Adam was so hateful to me." Lillith shakes her head. "So hateful." She glares at the cameraman, a dark stare full of thinly disguised hatred. The man is so intent filming her he doesn't even notice. "I had to show him he couldn't treat me that way."

"Adam? Who's Adam?"

"We were together in the Garden of Eden, silly."

"Who are you talking to?"

"Abaddon. The Angel of the Pit. He's going to feast, you know. You're going to die. You're all going to die."

"Can you tell us more about what's happening here?"

Lillith smiles brightly, coldly. "You'll find out soon enough."

* * *

"Third wave's comin' soon," Bobby says grimly. He lowers the shotgun and stares out the back kitchen window. All Ellen can do is nod. The shotgun in her hands is filled with special loads, silver and salt. The rifle slung across her back is loaded with consecrated iron. She hasn't had to use either one, not yet, anyway.

In addition to the devil's traps Bobby drew on the doors, the floors and the ceilings, thick lines of salt glisten in the doorways and the window sills. Ash and Jo stand guard up front, armed with shotguns and rifles, along with a few bikers and some of the long distance truckers. All of the action so far has been in the back lot. Kitty has had a fine old time out there; she laughs as she kills whatever is stupid enough to show itself, but there might come a time when "Boo Boo" needs some help..

None of the civilians huddled in the main room of the Roadhouse ask why. They see what's happening on tv, and the news coming out of Vegas isn't good.

Something lurks in the tall grass on the opposite side of the lot. Quick glimpses of red scaly skin and silver eyes, and other shifting shadows, dark and monstrous. Ellen doesn't know what her place has done to merit such attention, but it might be that these fugs are just following a trail. The Horsemen were here before they left for Vegas. That's probably more than enough to paint a target on the place.

Somewhen, somewhere else, Harvelle's Roadhouse is a smoking, smouldering ruin. Ash, Jo, Ellen and Bobby Singer died fighting, and so did the other hunters who were there when all hell finally broke loose.

In another reality Ellen Harvelle sickened and died when she pulled her pistol and tried to shoot Chale. She knew him only as Pestilence in that reality. To her the Horsemen were pure evil. They followed that damn black horse, corrupted Dean Winchester and were hell bent on destroying the world and everything she loved. The Ellen Harvelle in that 'verse never saw the softness in his eyes when he looked at her, never heard the pleased rumble in his voice when he touched her skin. In that other reality Chale never gave "Boo Boo" to Ellen. "Boo Boo" was actually Chale's ex-wife, Bastet. The Ellen Harvelle who died of accelerated cholera never knew any of that.

There are infinite possibilities, countless variations on the way that things could have gone. The Roadhouse is destroyed in some of those places.

Not here.

Harvelle's Roadhouse in this 'verse is surrounded by death, but none of it is human. The lot itself is littered with slick dark stains streaked with sulfur. The body parts scattered on the ground are clearly inhuman. Arms and legs bent in the wrong direction, claws, horns and tentacles, misshapen heads with wide silver eyes that stare into eternity.

The perpetrator of all this carnage sits relaxed and easy on top of the dumpster near the back door. She's sleek, elegant, and oh so lethal as she crouches there. Her long tail twitches slightly from side to side, and the rumbling sound she makes as she purrs to herself is somehow soothing.

"Boo Boo, huh?" Ellen Harvelle whispers softly as she watches the cat critter lick its slim right hand. "Chale, you better not get killed out there. You got a lot of explaining to do, buddy."

* * *

It's an in-between place. Mist, thick and white, hangs all around, and Dean has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. _Been there, done that before, _he thinks as he looks around. _Would it kill you guys to think up something original? _He almost expects to see God walk out of the mist, smiling, cheerful. "Well, how d'ya like the show so far, kiddo?"

He's not hurting anymore. At least there's _that_.

Right hand's gone. Again. Dean raises his stump up to eye level and stares intently at the empty space. Nothing.

Damn.

The air around him contracts, then expands. Changing air pressure makes his eardrums pop, and that's just another thing to royally piss him off. The mist clears away in the blink of an eye, and what's left isn't what he expects. Dean sees checkered tablecloths, worn wooden chairs. He tilts his head back slightly and scents green peppers, and the rich aroma of beef and pork.

Damn. Heaven or hell looks a lot like a pizza parlor somewhere.

The man sitting at the table nearby is old. He has a receding hairline that's just short of a comb over. The light grey pinstripe suit he wears is expensive, and the color perfectly matches the cold grey color of his eyes. He very deliberately chews at the tip of the slice of pizza in his hand. "Well?"

"Well what?" Dean rumbles.

"Aren't you going to sit?"

Something ornery rises up in Dean, wild, bright, and defiant. "I'll stand."

"Suit yourself."

We're in Chicago, Dean thinks to himself. He boldly stares at the man. "You're Death."

"Clever boy."

"But you're not from around here." Dean cocks his head to one side. "You're a Horseman. But you don't have a horse. You drive a white Cadillac. Nice ring," Dean nods at the large pearly ring on the man's finger.

The man nods. "They said you were intelligent. Good to know." The look on that thin face is almost pleasant. "You're an abomination, boy. You're a thing that shouldn't be."

Dean smirks at him. "Oh yeah, that stings. Not my first time hearing that."

"This may be your final time hearing it." Old Death huffs and his smile is sharp. "Everyone deserves a last meal, Dean. Come. Sit."

* * *

I know. Not my usual evil cliffie, but it's evil enough. See you Tuesday!


	51. Chapter 51

_**A/N:**_ The soundtrack for the Horseman attack sequence? "Back In The Saddle" by Aerosmith works for me. Lyrics in Dean's memory sequence are from "Traveling Riverside Blues" by Led Zeppelin.

* * *

**_Chapter 51_**

"_You're_ gonna reap _me_? _You? _I don't have time for this crap. _Grandpa_." Dean shakes his head angrily; the growl in his voice rattles the storefront window of the pizza place. He might not have Sam Colt's magic in his skin anymore, but he still knows a trick or two.

Old Death looks amused. "You'll have to make the time, Dean. Dying's an important part of life."

Dean rolls his eyes. It's time to get the hell out of here, where ever _here_ is. Samirah needs him, and Lillith needs killing for what she did. Jumpstarting the Apocalypse doesn't matter anymore, and besides, Dean's pretty sure now the damn thing would have started whether he ganked the bitch or not.

He can't sense Sam or Rika and the others, and that blankness is terrifying. They're okay. They are.

They _have_ to be.

His green eyes blaze copper. Dean's power surges up, fills the air all around him, and as it does Lillith's small hand print flares up through the midnight black right shoulder of his greatcoat.

Hurts like hell, but it's a familiar pain. He's felt it before, when Lillith's 'shifter thought she had the drop on him. _Same shit, different day,_ Dean thinks to himself. It's all right, he can handle this, he can deal -

Lillith's new hand print on his throat throbs in response. Dean's vision immediately fades out. He sees stars, hell, he sees whole constellations. The pain from his broken ribs comes roaring back, a supernova of bright, new pain overlaid over the rest. He can't catch his breath, and he knows that one of his ribs has punctured his right lung.

For a moment he's mindless, dazed and stunned by the onslaught of white noise that explodes behind his eyes. He can still sense Old Death, a slightly darker smudge of grey through the whiteout. He's so sure of himself, still sitting there.

Dean takes a stumble-step forward. He coughs. Feels like ground glass coming up, and something dark and wet, salt and coppery, stains his bottom lip. Blood.

Another awkward step, and the floor seems farther away than it was before. In the next instant Dean finds himself on his knees, staring dully at the grey and black speckled linoleum. The shock of hitting the floor makes his vision clear. He doesn't even remember putting his left arm out to break his fall. Jagged edges of bone shift inside his body. Dean hears himself make a noise that sounds like a whimper.

Old Death dabs almost daintily at the corner of his mouth with a red and white checkered napkin. He puts the napkin down next to his plate and stares at the pizza crumbs there almost wistfully. "Whatever has happened, whatever _will_ happen, doesn't concern you anymore. That horse of yours will still be broken."

"…f-fuck y-you…" Dean rasps out loud. He has breath enough for that, at least.

"Your fellow Horsemen will go on without you_. Or not_." The bastard adds pointedly. The wooden chair creaks as Old Death pushes back from the table, then leans torwards Dean.

"I tried to be civilized about this. I brought you here, even offered you a last meal. I was the perfect host, and you threw it all right back into my face." The older Death Horseman smiles, and there's no warmth, no comfort there. "Don't glare at me like that. If you want to blame anyone for your present predicament, you need only look in the mirror. You did this to yourself. You allowed yourself to become tainted, and for what? For your _family_." The word sounds like a curse coming out of those thin, cruel lips.

"This world, you Horsemen here? You're unnatural. You pretty boys and girls and your pretty little ponies." Old Death shakes his head in disgust. "Famine creates Abundance. Pestilence heals. War promotes Peace. And Death brings Life. That's unheard of. Where I come from, we Horsemen know our place in the natural order of things. We have one job, and we do it well. And you? You're the biggest abomination of all. You're Horseman and human. Not a good combination."

Old Death leans forward, and his light grey eyes glitter coldly underneath the overhead lights. "You wanted to ride, and you wanted your family. Family is your human weakness, Dean. Lillith knew that, so she offered the deal to you. She marked you and you allowed it. For your brother Samuel-"

"…s-shut…upp…"

"-and your father."

"..s-shut the h-hell u-up…" Dean leans forward until his forehead rests against the cold tile floor. Another wave of pain makes him shudder uncontrollably. His bones feel like brittle old glass, and he dully wonders if more bones will break.

"You're rude. Obnoxious. Why God picked you to look after this corner of Creation is beyond me." The wooden chair creaks as Old Death stands up, and even through the haze that surrounds him Dean feels a cold stab of panic. Footsteps vibrate through the floor. The hood of his greatcoat is fisted and he's yanked up on his feet again. If Old Death lets go Dean will surely face plant into the floor this time.

"There's nothing personal about any of this. You have to believe that, Dean. This place needs to be set right again. Corrections are in order."

Dean's head bobbles as he struggles to focus, but the reflected light from Old Death's large pearl ring hurts his eyes. Bastard wants to touch him, and for a moment Dean can't remember why. Dean thinks about lifting his left arm, thinks about smashing the old fuck in the face. He thinks about moving, and his body doesn't respond.

For a moment he can't understand why.

Something cool and dry slides against the side of his jaw.

…_no… _

It's a light touch, but Dean doesn't want it.

…_sonofabitch…get your damn hands off me…_

He tries to shake it off, and the pressure against his skin increases. His skin tingles. The sensation grows, a electric shock that envelops him from head to toe. The light that explodes inside his head is brighter than the noonday sun.

Dean's lives flash before his eyes. Each scene is crystal clear, startling in its clarity.

The soft silken feel of Tessa's skin underneath his fingertips…

…riding Samirah full out in the desert somewhere, somewhen. They move as one, and the thunder of her hooves shakes the ground below and the sky above.

_We were like nothing the world has ever seen, before or since…_

"Good job, son," Dad says, and the skin around his eyes crinkles.

…shagging ass down a deserted country road, Led Zeppelin blasting from the speakers…

_She's a good rider  
She's my kindhearted lady  
I'm gonna take my rider by my side  
I said her front teeth are lined with gold  
She's gotta mortgage on my body, got a lien on my soul  
She's my brownskin sugar plum... _

The roar of the Impala's engine music to his ears, windows rolled down, and Dean sings along with the words, loud and brash. Sam's gone to Stanford now, and Dad's on a hunt two states away. It sucks to be alone, but he's got his girl, and he's got a case. Could be worse.

It can _always_ get worse…

Small time cops are just as dumb as the big city ones, and these jackasses are no exception. Dean's handcuffed and thrown into a holding cell. He finds a paper clip on the floor of the cell and he works the cuffs loose. One thing at a time, and by the time he tricks the cop outside into coming close so he can grab him, Dean knows he's too late, knows the Madsen family will be dead anyway, killed by that ghoul, but he goes anyway, and he kills the fucker.

More blood on his hands, and at the time he just didn't know how much he really had…

The old gal in the nursing home looked just like a witch, long grey hair and spooky blank eyes, and Dean came this close to ganking her. "Sleepin' with my peepers open," Sam laughs, and he leans against the Impala laughing so hard his shoulders shake.

"We've done well today, Gaelen," Rika whispers softly. She sits her large white horse proudly. It's his very first day, and as he watches the reapers escort the hundreds of souls away, all Gaelen can do is nod while Samirah paws the ground restlessly.

"Hey, baby." Dean giggles as Mommy rustles his head. Her kiss on his forehead makes his skin tingle.

_Gaelen,_ Samirah whispers softly, _Gaelen, don't leave me…_

At first Dean can't put a name to what he's feeling.

It's vast, larger than the world, endless, a moment that stretches on forever, and for a split second Dean wants to scream out, in rage and grief. Not for himself. He'd had a good run, always knew that sooner or later the bill would finally The idea that he failed his family is what grates at him. He thinks of Sam and Samirah, Mom, Rika, Dad and Tiesen and Chale. Dean thinks of Ellen, and he never got a chance to make things right with Bobby. They're his family, all right, and he wouldn't have it any other way, but they deserved better. His best just wasn't good enough. Dean feels the loss of it all, so thick and heavy he nearly strangles on it. The feeling is overwhelming and totally familiar.

It feels like dying.

* * *

_I created all of this, Me_. God thinks to herself. _Damn, I'm good._

Everything around her is picture perfect, which is as it should be. The blue sky above is gorgeous. The Royal Caribbean cruise ship Oasis of the Seas is breathtaking as it navigates the calm blue waters.

And best of all, food service abroad the ship has been phenomenal.

God settles back on her lounge chair like an auburn haired cat. _Should have gone on vacation centuries ago._

That probably wouldn't have worked out, because her babysitter wasn't ready. Dean was Gaelen then, and Gaelen would have more than likely reaped the entire planet, much less saved it. Ah well.

The young waiter puts her shrimp cocktail down on the deck table next to her chair, and the smile She gives him is bright and friendly.

The waiter's name is Ronnie Ellison, from Seattle, Washington. He's worked for Royal Caribbean for a year now. Ronnie smiles back, and as he turns to go the air around him sizzles with a hint of hellfire and sulfur. Ronnie jerks upright. His evenly tanned skin pales to an unhealthy bluish grey color.

And his eyes are blood red now.

God rolls her eyes at the heavens. Typical. She never told her children where she was going, and they tracked her down anyway. And of course, it wouldn't do for Hell to find out that their Lord and Master went running to his Mother.

She frowns at her wayward son. "Don't break him, Luc. I will be very displeased if you do. Ronnie's a nice young man." God reaches out, snags one of the jumbo shrimp, dips it into the cocktail sauce and takes a bite. Yes, the day She invented shrimp was a very good day indeed.

Lucifer huffs and crosses Ronnie's arms over his chest.

The ship's purser appears suspended five feet above the deck. His wingspan is enormous, dark shadowy wings that easily stretch thirty feet. The Archangel Michael has arrived.

Lucifer glares at his brother.

Everything stops. The waves, the ship and the nearly eight thousand people on board. They're frozen in place, their faces blank, eyes unseeing.

God stares fondly at her two sons. Luc has always been a bit more emotional. Michael is steady and dependable, the good son, the one who always stayed, but it's very clear that he thinks the way She looks now is unseemly.

Michael scowls with disapproval at the flowered bathing suit, and he's clearly not too fond of Her wild, curly hairstyle either. "When are you coming home?"

She tosses her head, pulls her sunglasses from her forehead down over her eyes. "I haven't decided yet," She purrs lazily as She turns her face up to the sun.

"You could've left _me_ in charge," Lucifer whines. "You know that, don't you?"

"Luc, darling, you can't be serious." God shakes her head in disbelief.

"You won't let Michael babysit, and you like him more than you like me!"

The same old eternal argument. It became tiresome the first million times She ever heard it. "No, I don't."

"Then why? Why would you leave that…that _Horseman_ in charge? He's a mongrel."

The mention of Dean Winchester brings a wistful smile to God's face. Those fierce green eyes, that classically handsome face. He's flawed, but oh so beautiful. "He's perfect for the job. He cares about people."

"And I don't?"

"No, you don't. You play too roughly with humans. You break them. You'd turn the earth into a burnt cinder."

"So what's wrong with that?" Lucifer pouts. "It's what I do."

"The humans won't care," Michael says flatly. "They fear Winchester and his kind."

God plucks the little orange paper umbrella from her drink on the table beside her and twirls it between her fingers. The little things always make her smile. "Maybe. Maybe not. That's why I arranged for all that media coverage."

For a moment Lucifer looks startled. Michael's expression doesn't change very much.

"Humans like pretty pictures. Camera phones, weathercams, traffic cameras." God glances up at the sky, smiling. She knows there are at least three National Reconaissance Office recon satellites (_Jumpseat, Poppy2, and Icon_) in orbit overhead. She can hear the clockwork mechanisms whirring and clicking as the machines aim their lenses at the metropolitan Las Vegas area.

The sullen looks on Michael and Lucifer's faces are priceless.

"You two thought you were _so_ smart. You were going to start the Apocalypse with no advance warning. The rest of humanity wouldn't have known what hit them. And now they do. It's perfect. People will see what happened. They'll know."

"So it's written in stone, then?" Michael says dryly. "Winchester will win, and we won't?"

"Oh no. There's still such a thing as that pesky free will, remember, boys? Things can still go either way, for better or for worse." God reaches for her drink, takes a long sip, and the taste of crushed ice, orange and pineapple juice through the straw is cold, rich and wonderful. "Until then, I intend to enjoy myself."

Ronnie looks a little singed around the edges now. "Do you remember what I said, Luc?" God waggles a finger at him. "No death. I'm giving Ronnie a very large tip when this cruise is over. He certainly deserves it."

Lucifer sighs wearily. "Yes ma'm."

Ronnie's suddenly brown-eyed again. He blinks, confused, as he looks around, but it's good to see that Luc didn't leave him a slobbering wreck.

Michael disappears in a blaze of golden light. God knows that the ship's purser has re-appeared in his office, completely unaware of what just happened. The ship resumes her slow, stately course through the water and the people on board start to move and breathe again.

God polishes off a few more shrimp. The tangy taste of cocktail sauce makes her toes curl.

She's always loved her boys, but they were both always a handful, each in their own way. She has one more week on this cruise, and if the earth survives, well, She'll have plenty of time for another.

Rio de Janeiro is beautiful this time of year…

* * *

_North…_

It's like old times.

"Amateurs," Tiesen thinks to himself. The humans wearing black are armed to the teeth, and they don't stand a chance. They stand guard at various positions in the parking lot. Tiesen slips into this reality just long enough to stand at each one's side and whisper "Sleep" into their ears. His low, deep voice echoes like thunder in the bony space behind their eyes, and they all collapse like puppets with their strings cut.

Tiesen won't allow himself to believe that Gaelen (Dean) and Samirah are dead. If he truly believed that he wouldn't hesitate to snap necks like twigs, instead of putting them down for a nap. There won't be any human death today, not in this place called Las Vegas, not even human scum such as these.

He's wrong, of course, but he doesn't know that yet.

The demons inside the young twins are next. Tiesen's right in their personal space, grips each one by the throat before they have time to react. He sees the darkness underneath their skins recede and the fear in their eyes is very human, and very real. The demons have gone to ground deep inside their stolen human meatsuits. William and Olivia Cross are being used as human shields now, which is one reason Tiesen despises demons in the first place, always has, even before Old Yellow Eye went after Gaelen and Samirah. Black eyes, yellow eyes, doesn't matter. They're all cowards.

Tiesen deepens his voice. _Go to sleep now._

The Cross twins immediately slump over unconscious.

_Come here, _Tiesen tells the demons_. Now. _

The demons come out of the children's skins, hissing and squalling. Y_ou can't do this,_ they wail silently. _You should be helping us -_ The panic in their thought voices makes Tiesen roll his eyes.

_Shut the hell up and die, _he tells them, and the damned things do, folding in on themselves. It's just like old times. Tiesen 'ports the unconscious twins onto empty seats in one of the school buses nearby.

A flash of copper light, and on the other side of the lot Ajani charges into view. The school buses filled with people disappear at the same time the big red horse does.

* * *

_South_

Anna's heard of frogs falling from the sky. She's been responsible for a few weird falls like that herself. Frogs, stones, flesh, whatever was needed to remind humans that there was more to this world than what they can see.

She's never seen apples fall from the sky before.

The one that hits the ground before her is red, large and impossibly perfect. Anna feels her mouth water as she stares at it. Her fingers twitch. She leans down, scoops the apple up, bites into it, and this wonderful taste explodes inside her mouth. _God, that was good!_

Anna crunches into the apples, greedily devours the rest of if, skin, core, stem and all, and as she does she realizes more are falling from the sky. They thump against the roofs of the school buses, bounce off the chain link fences. The humans inside the buses don't make a move to come out; the armed men standing around see to that.

The rest of the angels scramble to grab the apples just like Anna did.

And the demons are becoming agitated. It's not fair. Why should the damn angels get it all?

A demon wearing a middle-aged church matron scuttles in sideways like a crab. The angels use their shadow wings to sweep them aside, but more keep coming. Anna doesn't hesitate to use her status and her vessel to bull her way in; these apples are the most perfect fruit she's ever seen. She has to have more. She snatches up two, one for each hand. The rich taste makes her roll her eyes in ecstasy.

As she backs away from the crowd she notices that all of the guards have apples in their hands. They take a bite, just one, and then each man drops to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

Anna coughs. She feels strange. She coughs again, and that's when she feels something deep inside her vessel loosen.

A young blonde girl wearing armor stands before her blinks into view.

"Famine," Anna murmurs softly.

The girl nods, and the slight smile that curves her lips makes Anna shudder. Her throat hitches again, more violently this time, and when her vessel's mouth opens bright golden light streams out in a solid beam of light. Anna tries to stop herself, she flails at the open air with her wings and her arms, her own mouth stretched wide in fear and panic.

The same thing happens to the other angels.

Thick black smoke coils out of the mouths of the demon possessed church folk.

* * *

Rika nods with satisfaction. Snow White was her favorite bedtime story when she was little.

She especially liked the part about the poisoned apple.

This is a variation on that. It's a spew drink. The vessels vomit out light and smoke, and demons and angels fall to the ground, writhing and twitching. The human guards are not a problem, not anymore, but then again they never were.

Rika walks forward just as Anna is halfway out of her vessel. She grabs the angel by the throat, gently pulls her out, and then Rika strikes the angel with her fist. Rika smiles at the sting of angel flesh against her knuckles. That was for Gaelen and Samirah.

Anna goes airborne, a bright streak of golden light in the dark air above. She crashes into the desert area outside Las Vegas, and lands right on top of the elephant god, Ganesha. Fortunately Ganesha is large, jovial, and well-padded, but this still pisses him off, so he amuses himself by stomping on Anna as she lies unconscious on the ground.

Actaeon thunders in from the north, and the wide sweep of energy from the white horse gathers up sleeping vessels and the school buses alike. They all blink out of view.

* * *

_East_

Chale doesn't think of himself as being a particularly deep thinker. He just knows he's damn good at what he does. He knows how to sicken people, and he knows how to heal when he puts his mind to it.

Each human guard in the school bus lot feels something tiny buzz around their ears. They feel anxious, then drowsy, as fever blooms underneath their skin. All of the guards instantly break out in a heavy sweat, and their lymph nodes immediately flare red and swollen all over their bodies. Two more eyeblinks, three, and all of the guards slump to the ground unconscious.

Sleeping sickness without the tsetse flies. The process is quick. It takes more time to tell it.

That was subtle. What Chale does now is about as subtle as a hand grenade in a barrel: He appears right in the middle of the possessed Lange family and starts whaling on them.

Several of the vessels suffer massive internal injuries, and Chale heals them on the spot as he makes them sleep. Mouths open impossibly wide, as the demons inside the parents, Alden and Katie, vacate their stolen flesh. That's exactly what Chale wants them to do. The angels inside the kids, Lainey and Jessie, slide out through the pores of their vessels' skins in a haze of bright golden light and dark sooty wings. Angels and demons curve upwards towards open sky, and as they rise into the air Chale reaches out with his mind and grabs each one.

As Dean would say, Chale knows a trick or two.

There's a little known pit down in hell, a drab, dismal spot located in the lowlands of hell. Chale found it one day, centuries ago, when he and Ishmael went out for an extended run by themselves. Chale always makes note of things he finds out there. One never knows when such odds and ends will come in handy.

Like now.

He flings the angels and the demons into the pit down in hell. They scream and shriek as they throw themselves against the heavy stone door that slides into place. It will take some time for them to claw their way back out, but that doesn't seem to be an issue anymore. The angels and demons start clawing at each other out of frustration, and Chale knows in a while there won't be much left.

No great loss.

Chale's grey horse, Ishmael, trots into view. The Lange family and the four school buses are transported out to safety.

In another second or so Chale realizes how wrong he was about that.

* * *

_West_

Dean's not dead. Sam can't even consider that possibility. He can't imagine going through life without seeing that mischievous twinkle in his older brother's eyes, can't imagine never hearing Dean call him "Sammy" ever again. It's just not possible. Sam can't see it.

Standing in his in-between space, Sam stares at the armed guards in Castiel's lot. He thinks about how fragile the human body really is as he reaches out with his mind. He sees the humans as negative images, frameworks of transparent flesh and bone from the inside out. Sam maps their digestive systems, senses the food they ate hours before.

This is going to get messy. Very messy.

Sam reaches inside. He moves the disgested food up, and then down.

Several of the guards drop their guns and vomit. The rest experience what can only be described as diarrhea from hell. It brings them to their knees, makes them incapable of thinking about anything else as their bodies spasm and shudder and they soil their black clothes.

Sam's not very gentle, and he just doesn't care. The sooner this is over with, the sooner they deal with these sonsabitches and evac the people in the busses out, the sooner he can reach Dean.

Sam's wrong about that.

* * *

Castiel watches the humans. They're the canaries in the coal mine, so to speak. Castiel is not that familiar with the reference, but James Novak is. James Novak prayed for an angel to come for him. He prayed to be of service, and he never wavered in his faith, not even when he was committed to the mental institution where Castiel overtook him. Castiel never wonders, never thanks him for his service, or his loyalty. Jimmy Novak is useful, and that's all Castiel cares about.

The guards are in distress. All of them are. Castiel's intense blue eyes narrow coldly. _Famine_, the angel thinks to himself.

A shimmer of copper light behind him, and even as he turns around Castiel knows how wrong he is.

Sam Winchester, Castiel thinks to himself. Azazel's tainted spawn. The young man's blue green eyes gleam dark gold now. He's dressed in Horsemen armor, and the look on the boy's face is stern, determined. The crack of Winchester's fist as it slams into Castiel's jaw is loud and shocking.

Another blow makes the angel stagger backwards. The younger Winchester is obviously not concerned about any damage he might do to Castiel's vessel. He's focused on the angel inside. This is personal, and is no doubt about the older brother, that Dean, and the father.

Castiel staggers as the newest Horseman moves in on him. He turns is head just in time to see the huge spotted horse round the corner of the nearest school bus. The air around the animal shimmers with copper colored light. The bus and the people inside vanish from sight, and the other three buses follow.

The chain link fence ripples like ocean waves as Castiel's slammed backwards. Another blow to the face, and then another to the midsection.

Castiel tastes Jimmy Novak's blood in his mouth, even as he heals the worst internal injuries. He doesn't do this out of any sense of duty to Jimmy Novak. It's only to keep his vessel functional.

Despite the intense pain, it's hard not to smile at the boy.

The trap has been sprung.

* * *

Sheriff's Deputy Darlene Kibbe watches as the great black horse goes down. She knows she's seen this animal before, days ago, just before the world went sliding into darkness. This same black beast ran on water, effortlessly, gracefully. Some people thought it was a terrible sight.

Darlene thought it was one of the most wonderful things she'd ever seen.

Darlene grew up on a ranch in Montana, with her aunt and uncle. She'd always loved horses, and this black horse was easily the most beautiful one she'd ever seen. That curved neck, those delicate Arabian features. Darlene stares at the animal, lying broken, so still and quiet. She's seen other horses like this, and it always makes her sad to see something so lively and spirited reduced to death or stillness in a heartbeat.

She feels a tug on her arm, and that's enough to bring her back to herself. "M-Mom?"

Darlene blinks. She smiles down at her son. Eight year old Rick stares at her, wide-eyed. Darlene reaches out and ruffles the boy's cap of light brown hair, and the worried expression on his face eases, just a little. He looks just like his father. Eleven year old Paula Kibbe 's eyes narrow, as though she's seeing something she doesn't even want to consider.

"Mom?" The girl whispers softly. Paula stares down at Darlene's right hand. Darlene follows her gaze and realizes she has her hand at her hip, resting on her service pistol.

"What are you gonna do with _that_?" Paula says slowly, with a nod towards the gun.

Darlene turns. The black horse is still lying in the grass on her side. No one's moved towards her. People are standing around in a wide circle, like a silent congregation in a church.

"I can't leave her like that," Darlene says softly.

"You're gonna shoot it?" Paula's voice rises in disbelief.

Darlene nods.

Rick's eyes widen. "Why can't you just leave it alone? Why can't we just keep walking?"

"We will, sweetie. We will." Darlene turns towards the horse. "She's still alive. Still breathing. It's not right to let an animal suffer like that."

"Mom, don't -"

"It'll be all right," Darlene says, to her kids, to herself. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

* * *

_Gaelen…_Samirah calls out. _Gaelen, don't leave me…_

_S-Samirah…_

_I'm coming. I 'm getting up. Stay there. Stay -_

_...'m…'m sorry…_

_No! NO! Damn you, not again-_

* * *

The horse is even larger up close. She's black all right, black as the crack of doom, even speckled with grey road dust like that. Her coat is as sleek as glass.

Darlene kneels at her head. The animal's breathing is slow, and after a few more labored breaths Darlene almost expects it to stop, but it doesn't. That would be a mercy, and there's not much of that around, not today. Darlene glances at the white bone of that broken leg, and then she glances away.

She feels the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes; her next breath makes her throat and chest hitch. It's a soft sound, just like the slide of metal against leather as she draws her pistol.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," Darlene whispers softly. She stretches out her arm, places the muzzle of the gun just below the black horse's left ear.

Darlene pulls the trigger.


	52. Chapter 52

_**A/N:**_ I don't own _Supernatural_, the song _Black Horse and The Cherry Tree_, or _Dead Like Me_. This is for entertainment purposes and not for profit. If I haven't explained this before, I'll do it now: I was inspired to write _Black Horse_ after seeing a _Dead Like Me_ marathon and _The Black Stallion_. And the rest, as they say, is history. Soundtrack for this chapter: _One Last Breath_, by Creed.

* * *

_**Chapter 52**_

There's water in Hell.

And sometimes, it freezes over. Not the sort of thing that the lords and presidents of Hell speak of much. Fire and brimstone is much more spectacular. And it's expected, besides. There's water all right, lakes and oceans of dark water and frigid ice.

The legendary witch Circe stands quietly in the center of one such lake in a secluded corner of hell. She's not alone. Ten hellhounds sit quietly on the shore around the lake. They are the new and improved ones, her own special breed, vastly different from the beasts Famine and Pestilence killed earlier. They're rowdy, noisome beasts, more comfortable killing and tearing their prey limb from limb, but none of the hounds complain at being made to sit and stay.

They're a jaw-dropping mix of demon and mammal, huge curved horns, razor sharp jaws that would do a Great White shark proud, massive bodies and legs as thick as tree trunks. They're not built for longevity, but they should last longer than the other hellhounds did, if need be.

Circe pulls her long deep hood down around her shoulders. Her perfectly formed head is completely bald, her pale scalp covered with tattooed sigils. She has long since given up any ideals of feminine beauty.

One has to make sacrifices in the pursuit and acquisition of power.

She shrugs out of her long dark purple robe, unmindful of the thin layer of white frost that immediately covers her exposed flesh. Her breath is a thick white plume of vapor in the dark reddish air. Every square inch of her lean body is covered with ink black sigils, right down to the bend of her knuckles, her fingertips and the palms of her hands. Some of the sigils are Enochian, others Latin, still others Summerian.

The third eye painted on her forehead blinks, and then the eyelid opens fully. The color of the iris is a deep, fiery orange. Circe's lilac eye color blazes orange in response.

Heaven and Hell have a back-up plan. Many of the power sigils and the spells she will use came from beyond Heaven's Gates itself. Circe knows it's a great honor to be depended upon like this.

Circe raises her arms to the roof of Hell and beyond that, to Heaven. The words she chants are Latin; sometimes the classics are the best, the most dependable.

"…ad puto nihil ridens usu. No eum fierent gloriatur. Te eos perfecto mandamus deterruisset, ex duo aeque suavitate gubergren. Vix at hinc etiam…"

The surface of the ice lake shimmers in response.

"…percipit insolens philosophia an his. Dico primis aliquam est an, meis sententiae vituperatoribus sea eu. Brute erant nihil ex nec, an tota suscipiantur …"

Images appear in the ice around her, angels, demons, gunmen, orange school buses filled with women, men and children, all ages, all races.

"…vim, usu eu iusto oporteat. No semper aliquid nam, tale etiam maiestatis mei et, no nec illum alterum. Sit ad quodsi volumus, tritani consequat rationibus an nec…"

Circe chants power into the air.

"…decore libris abhorreant at. Saperet honestatis vim id, pri et vocent molestiae. Assueverit interpretaris no pro, qui te bonorum epicuri singulis, ex pri appareat percipit detraxit…"

Ribbons of mist rise from the sigils on her body, red, pitch black, pale yellow. The colors swirl into the air, slowly at first, and then into a wide arc around her.

"…mnesarchum id vis. Prima tempor maiestatis in sea, debet volumus his te, tollit veniam te qui. Ius nihil verear pertinax et…"

Time has no meaning. Those foolish, ungrateful children will show themselves soon enough.

Circe waits.

It happens all at once, and there they are, the Horseman and their mounts, fighting demons and angels. Denying their true natures. Saving people.

Or so they think.

Circe spreads her arms even wider. The vast power she's summoned glides onto the surface of the ice lake. The ribbons weave together like the strands of a spiderweb, stretching from one end of the lake to the other. The web tightens and then flattens out over the images in the ice.

_Caught. _Circe smiles, bright and terrible._ You stay put now._

* * *

Another hard right, and Castiel's nose breaks. Sam has to admit it's a satisfying sound. On some level feeling the angel's nose collapse underneath his knuckles is pretty good, too. Nahele disappears along with the school buses in a haze of copper light. The civilians are out of harm's way now, and all Sam has to do is make sure Castiel doesn't follow.

None of that matters in the next second.

Sam's vision blurs. For a moment he can't see anything, just a soft grey smear all around him. The feeling is unlike anything he's felt so far; he doesn't recognize the power signature. For some reason the only thing Dad's Marine lecture on Murphy's Law immediately comes to mind: _Boys, whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. _

When his vision clears Sam stares at the group standing in front of him, and he knows everything has gone south.

Sam sees Rika, Chale, and Tiesen. Nahele looks puzzled, as do the rest of the horses. Where ever this is, this place looks like just another large parking lot. The Horsemen are in the idle of the clearing: the buses form a square all around them.

Tiesen frowns. "What the hell?"

Sam feels it then, an overwhelming sense of wrongness in the air, a barely heard whisper that sends a chill through his skin.

…_eum fierent gloriatur. Te eos perfecto mandamus deterruisset…_

Chale's eyes narrow dangerously. "It's a damn witch. Can't you feel it?"

"Circe," Rika mutters softly.

All the doors of all the buses open up at the same time. The people file out, and they move with quick, jerky motions, like whatever is inside them isn't used to moving around inside a human body. Their eyes are covered with a thin sheen of shifting pale grayish white that catches and holds the gleam of the overhead lights like the surface of a dirty soap bubble.

_Crap,_ Sam thinks to himself. It's so damn hard to think, all of a sudden. There's a buzzing inside his head.

…_prima tempor maiestatis in sea, debet volumus his te, tollit veniam te qui. Ius nihil verear…_

He can almost recognize the words, and he knows the others can hear them too, but he can't think straight -

…_Ius nihil verear pertinax et…_

He can't -

The humans split open. Their clothes burst apart. They unzip right down the middle, and what slithers out is slimy slick and dark grey, a huge comma shaped, eyeless lump of muscle with a long whip-like tail.

The worst part is the mouth, a circle of jagged, needle sharp teeth that flexes and flares. These damn things know exactly what they want and who they're here for. Hundreds of them scuttle over the discarded human shells and tattered clothing. They hump forwards and flex their tails as they come over the tops of the school buses in thick, undulating waves.

Sam feels it; they all do. Each Horseman, each Apocahorse feels a weakness, a void where their power used to be. They can't 'port out. They can't use their powers. Sam casts a quick sideways glance at Tiesen, Rika and Chale and it's plain that they have no intention of running.

Horsemen don't run. Not now, not ever. They'll go down swinging, for what it's worth.

Tiesen and Chale deliberately move in front of Sam and Rika, and Sam almost laughs at the annoyed expression on Rika's face.

The air fills with leeches. Tiesen and Chale are swallowed up by the wave.

Nahele gets hit next, as several of the things latch onto him. The spotted horse rears up, screaming in rage, as more of the things attach themselves to his body. Nahele goes down on his side. Several of the leeches clamp themselves around his muzzle. Ajani, Actaeon and Ishmael lash out with their hooves, but the result is the same. They're overwhelmed and down on the ground in the space of a few more heartbeats.

Sam staggers as he's hit several times. He loses count how many. He doesn't look down, he won't. He feels light-headed, dizzy, and he can't tell if it's the spell or the venom the leeches use. He sees blood, realizes they're biting into him, but it doesn't hurt.

Or maybe he's too far gone to feel it.

He sees Rika lying on her side nearby. Only her face is visible; the rest of her is cocooned in leaches, and the look in her eyes is dazed and unfocused.

Sam's knees buckle, and the ground feels as soft as a pillow when he hits. He greys out, and as he drifts away Sam hears the second part of Dad's Murphy's Law Marine lecture:

_As bad as it gets, it will always get worse. Depend on it. _

* * *

Dean Winchester wears death well. Always has, even when he didn't know what his true birthright was. Now his lightly freckled skin fairly glows with death; the look on his face can only be described as serene, peaceful, as his spirit loosens its hold on this mortal plane. Just a little more, and his physical form, the body Lillith possessively clings to in that Las Vegas place will be a lifeless husk.

Old Death has never reaped a Horseman, but he's reaped other, singular beings before, beings with power whose time had likewise come and gone. The Older Horseman doesn't consider himself a voyeur, but the facial expressions of the dying do interest him from time to time. He leans forward a little, sweeping his gaze over Winchester's face, memorizing ridiculously long dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Winchester looks even more beautiful dying. That happens sometimes. Nothing to be concerned about.

Old Death is sure of that.

Winchester's left hand comes up hard and fast, grips the soft underside of the elder's jaw and squeezes. _Hard._ Old Death makes a gurgling sound as his jaws snap shut with an audible click. His body stiffens as it reacts to this unaccustomed insult.

Maybe, just maybe, _this_ is something he _should_ be concerned about.

Dean Winchester opens his eyes. The young man's moss green eyes are highlighted with small pinpoints of copper and gold. The glow deepens, becomes stronger, brighter. The thin scars around his right eye catch and reflect light.

Breathing was always an illusion for Old Death; he never really had to before, never really thought about it, but now he can't catch his breath. The Older Horseman's eyes widen in shock. He can't understand any of this, can't even remember exactly when he pulled his hand away from Winchester's face. He's weak now, too weak to even lift his hands up. He thinks about the motion, he wants to do it, but his body's turned traitor.

"You…you can't do this…"

"Yeah. I get that a lot." Winchester rumbles laughter, dark and fierce. Oddly enough, it's also a cheerful and happy noise. Anyone who knows Dean Winchester or Gaelen would certainly recognize the emotion behind the sound: _Your ass is mine, you sonofabitch. All mine._

The Old One sees it then; the eternal part of the boy rises to the surface. The timbre of the voice changes, the inflection is different, more formal. The facial features shift slightly.. "You call yourself a Horseman, and you have no horse." The boy tilts his head slightly to one side and stares intently at the elder. "Strange."

His words have come back to bite Old Death squarely on the ass: "Horseman and human, a bad combination."

A very bad combination indeed.

Winchester tightens his grip. He's human again, or very nearly. "My family needs me. I'm not going anywhere."

And just as quickly the Horseman is back. "You can have only what I decide to give." Another head tilt, and a slight smile curves the corners of those lips upwards. "So you and your kind are pure, untainted?" Winchester leans forward until he and Old Death are nose to nose. "I can help you with that. As you said before, corrections are in order."

There's no sense in pleading. There's nothing he can say to head this off. Old Death knows that now. The urge to come to this place, to correct what would have been unspeakable in his own world was irresistible, and now he realizes he never should have come.

His skin grows unbearably cold and pale as Dean Winchester's touch burns into his skin. Old Death smells the smoke of his flesh burning. The space behind his eyes fills up with white noise, vast and heavy as Lillith's white darkness roars into him. He jitters in place, shaking and trembling, and the only thing he can do is open his mouth and scream.

* * *

Dean loses interest as soon as Old Death finally blacks out and slumps over. He releases his grip and watches the so-called Horseman drop to the floor. Dean (and Gaelen) would like to obliterate the self-righteous sonofabitch, would like nothing more than to scatter his ashes to the four winds, but that would take too much time, and time is something Dean senses he might not have much of.

_Samirah?_

There's no answer.

Dean's spirit disappears. A moment later his physical body at Treasure Island vanishes from Lillith's arms.

* * *

Beeson blinks and she misses it. One minute the Horseman's unconscious, held up by the woman in white, that Lillith, and the next instant, he's gone. It takes the blonde a full second to realize her arms are empty, and then she lets out a blood curdling scream that rips the air in two. Beeson could swear she sees something dark blue and oily crawl underneath the surface of that perfect pale skin.

Lillith's eyes turn stark white. It's enough to make Beeson back up and as fear ripples through the crowd other people wisely do the same.

Gamble sees it all through the lens of his camera. The hair at the back of his neck stands up, stiff and painful, and he has enough presence of mind to backpedal when Lillith wheels around in his direction with her hands hooked into claws, her eyes blazing. Gamble tells himself that he does it just to frame the shot, but it's more than that.

This bitch is in a killing mood now, and on some level Gamble knows it's about to get bloody.

* * *

WHAT DID YOU DO WITH HIM, BITCH? Abaddon roars. He throws his massive pale head back and howls his rage into the cracked earth above him. WHERE DID HE GO?

Lillith staggers as the ground cracks underneath her.

Abaddon detaches hundreds of his smaller razor sharp feathers. They wind their way up through the cracks in the earth, and they strike Lillith repeatedly. Her perfect white skin rips open. Lillith bleeds dark blue. She looks like a white satin pincushion now, covered from head to toe in foot long feather quills.

"YOU TOOK HIM!" she roars back. "YOU DID!" She reaches up with both hands and pulls at the quill stuck in her right eye.

Abaddon laughs as the earth shifts.

* * *

The reapers gather in the street alongside Treasure Island. There are hundreds of reapers, one for each human. The humans can't see them, of course.

The Horsemen might have intended there would be no human death here that day, but there will be.

The gas lines underneath the broken sidewalks buckle with the force of the Fallen's laughter.

Everything has limits.

* * *

It's not fair. It gets lonely out here, sometimes. He doesn't have a home, just "here and there." He never gets to keep any of the animals he reaps, not a frog or a hamster. Not even JD the dog.

Charlie's been awfully busy for the last two weeks, reaping hundreds of pets all over the metropolitan Las Vegas area. He usually keeps the yellow Post-Its with the animal's name stuck to that dog-eared Lady Death comic tucked away inside his backpack, but he's done so many he had throw the Post-Its away. Usually he arrives and touches the animal before the death actually happens. He doesn't have a Post-It with the horse's name on it, but things are different today. Charlie can feel it in the air.

Maybe he doesn't need a Post It to reap her.

Maybe he'll get his lights today, and follow her into the afterlife.

She doesn't have a right leg, not anymore, but that doesn't matter. Charlie's seen animals all broken like she is. They always heal after they cross over. She'll have four legs then, and maybe she'll let him ride her. They could go to the beach. Somewhere, somewhen. He could ride like the wind, away from this unlife.

He knows what she is (an apocahorse), knows her name (Samirah). Charlie never would admit that he's tired of being lonely, but he is. He's a boy, after all, not some moonstruck girl pinning for some fat, rude pony. Charlie remembers the day he watched _The Black Stallion _with his Mom. He was alive then, thought he had his whole life ahead of him, but he really had only another year of living before that damn drunk driver ran him down and killed him.

That Saturday afternoon Charlie was totally unaware of that. He sat on the couch with a bowl of microwave popcorn balanced on his lap, pretended he wasn't interested in the movie, but he always had the feeling his mom knew otherwise. The race at the end of the movie was cool, but he really liked the scenes on the beach, with Kelly Reno riding the big black stallion through the surf.

Charlie stands and waits, and even though the black horse lies still and quiet on her side, as he stares at her he can still feel the sun on his face and the wind in his hair.

* * *

The barrel of Deputy Kibbe's Smith and Wesson M&P Compact pistol is 3 and a half inches. When it exits the gun the bullet will travel 1000 feet per second as it buries itself deep into Samirah's skull.

In the nanosecond since Kibbe pulled the trigger the bullet has propelled itself halfway down the bore of the gun.

Samirah's less than a hand's length away from eternity.

The pain she felt when her right leg exploded underneath her was unlike anything she'd ever felt before. As bad as that agony was, her sudden inability to run, effortlessly, gracefully, weaving in and out of time and from one reality to the next, was far worse.

None of that was as bad as the realization that Gaelen was dying too.

The whiteness inside Samirah has chilled her right down to her core. Nothing works. All she can hear is the roar of white static inside her head. It fills her up, weighs her down to the ground. She wants to stand up, wants to run away from this, but she can't move her legs. She only has three good ones now, so what would be the point? The coldness surrounds her heart, dims the great engine inside her. She can't do anything else but surrender to this death, and hope that once she crosses over she can find Gaelen Out There somewhere, on the Other Side.

_Samirah…_

She hears Gaelen's voice a faint whisper, dimmed by pain, time and distance. Samirah whickers softly in response.

They were created together, and they'll die together. That's as it should be. Gaelen's left her before, left her alone.

For her own good, he said. Samirah never understood that.

The bullet exits the muzzle of the pistol. Samirah feels heat against her skin.

__

_Gaelen..._

* * *

Everything slows down, and in her ignorance Darlene Kibbe thinks that's just a trick her mind plays on her. Time doesn't really slow down, does it? She feels the gun's recoil as it travels up her arm. The air thickens around her, and everything, her breathing, her heartbeat, even the click of the firing mechanism, seems magnified, too loud, too slow.

There's another sound, louder than the rest. It's the loudest and the softest sound she's ever heard, a whiskey smooth growl, a wordless expression of rage mixed with disbelief.

The hair at the back of Darlene's neck rises up, stiff and painful. Something is coming.

Something rageful, ancient and dangerous.

She feels a hard tug on the collar of her jacket. The fabric rips, and she's flung backwards in the same horrible slow motion. The darkness around her is on fire now, ablaze with gold and copper light.

Kibbe stares dully at her empty right hand. Her gun's gone.

Reality and time snap back into place when she hits the ground hard. The jolt travels up her spine, like a kid playing hopscotch. Despite the ringing in her ears she finally hears the crack of the shot as the bullet streaks into the darkness above.

The black horse is a large, dark shape on the ground, but the being standing a few feet away has Darlene's complete attention now. He's inhumanly beautiful, dressed in black from head to toe. She can't look away from those fierce green eyes.

"You stay the hell away from my horse." His voice rolls like thunder, and the dark clouds overhead churn in response.

Death is here, and Death is supremely pissed.


	53. Chapter 53

_**A/N:**_ We're back! I was going to post this and _Appointment with Samirah_ last Sunday morning. FFnet was down. Then it was up. Then it was down again. Now it's up again, for good, I hope. Before that it was down for nearly two weeks. This up and down stuff makes me really nervous, so I decided to wait a couple of days this time to see if it stayed up. Soundtrack for this chapter: the extended version of the theme from the television show _Cold Case_, by ES Posthumus.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 53**_

Once he was her bright and shining baby boy. Mary never forgot the feel of Dean's silky blonde hair underneath her fingertips, the weight of his sturdy little body as she held him in her arms.

Years later, many deaths later, hers, his, and early everyone he's ever loved, Dean's different now.

Dean still shines, but he's an adult now, inhumanly beautiful, dressed in black from head to toe. The air around him blazes with a dark and terrible light.

Mary drowns in it. She's dimly aware of a pair of strong arms wrapped around her body _(JohnJohnJohn)_ and she desperately leans into the touch. John Winchester is the only anchor she has now, the only way she has to keep from slipping underneath the rising tide, and she clings to him, breathes in his scent (leather and gunpowder, faint scent of aftershave, the last bottle she bought for him before she died).

Mary clings to John, but she only has eyes for Dean now.

His eyes blaze green, gold, and copper, and she can't help but think that her firstborn son, her darling boy, looks just like something her family would hunt.

* * *

The grubby looking nine year old kid with the backpack changes as the irate Horseman turns in his direction. Charlie's wide eyed, dirt smudged face shifts, turns pale, skeletal and transparent in the blink of an eye. He gathers his funeral shroud around his body and streaks for the open dark sky above.

He's quick.

Dean is quicker.

"Where you goin', Casper?" Dean rumbles. He raises his left hand and makes a fist. Charlie jerks to a stop in mid-air: he flails wildly as his own shroud turns traitor against him. It expands and engulfs him as it wraps itself tightly around his impossibly thin frame. He's covered in it now, from head to toe, his knees folded underneath his chin. A casual flick of Dean's wrist and Charlie hits the ground hard a few feet away.

The one hundred fifty refugees on the highway don't react to any of this. They don't move back, and they don't run away. Dean won't allow it. None of them look human to him anymore. They're shifting flares of orange and yellow heat. For a moment, just a moment, he thinks about how easy it would be to put their lights out forever. He could reduce them to dust with a wave of his hand, but that would be too damn easy.

She held the gun to Samirah's head, but the rest of them are just as guilty as that bitch in the brown sheriff's deputy uniform. Dean knows her entire history in less than a heartbeat: Darlene Kibbe, thirty two years old, married, husband serving in Afghanistan. The two kids standing a few feet away are hers. There's no doubt that it. Kibbe doesn't even glance in their direction, and Dean knows he can hurt he just as much as she tried to hurt him. The other girl (Paula) stands frozen with her arms wrapped around her little brother; she gives Dean a dirty look that plainly tells him she hopes he goes straight to hell.

The way this day is going, he just might.

Dean hears the slow steady rasp of Samirah's breathing behind him. He won't turn around. He can't. The sight of her lying still and broken on the ground would surely break him now. Ordinarily Samirah's spirit shines huge, lively and brighter than the noonday sun. Now, dulled and dimmed by Lillith's white darkness, Samirah is a pale reflection of her former self.

_My fault,_ Dean thinks. _All my fucking fault._

He can't sense Sam and the others, knows that Samirah needs Chale now. Chale could heal her with a touch, but he's missing now. Something's happened. Something bad.

The rage, grief and self-hatred that rises up inside Dean fuels the great and terrible engine at his core. The captive humans flinch at the brightness of Dean's eyes.

His fellow Horsemen and their mounts followed him to this place. They came willingly, and it's all his damn fault. Everything is. They shouldn't have come, should have ridden away from this place. None of this matters if he loses the ones he loves the most, and he's already lost so damn much….

_Gaelen…_Samirah's thought voice is softened by fatigue and pain.

_It's me_. Dean answers softly, silently. _I'm here._

_Is this…is this a dream? I dreamed about you, just like before._

Dean takes a deep breath as he lies easily, effortlessly. _Everything's fine. _

He couldn't hate himself any more than he already does right now_._

_Tired…I just need to rest…a little more…_

_It's okay. _That's a lie, a damn lie, but he's got nothing else. _You don't have to get up now. It's all right. _He sends a light, soothing thought touch down the curve of her neck. Samirah whickers softly in response.

_You need to rest for a little while longer. Go back to sleep. I'm gonna move you now, okay? Get you out of here, to someplace warm, someplace safe…_

* * *

Samirah flicks her ears slightly. She feels the change around her, senses the sunlight against her skin, but it doesn't warm her much. The cushion of sand underneath her body feels softer than the gravel by the highway did.

She's still too tired to open her eyes, so she keeps them closed. The coldness inside her fills her up, weighs her down. Her right foreleg feels strange. Bones shift underneath her skin, and she doesn't understand why. That's wrong, just like the worry in Gaelen's voice. He tries to hide it, but she could always tell when he was lying.

Her nostrils flare weakly at the sharp tang of salt water.

Samirah drifts. She's always loved the ocean, always enjoyed the feeling of the water frothing around her ankles. She remembers the day she taught Nahele how to walk on water. He was just a foal, barely two months old, and he stared at her wide-eyed in amazement when he saw her boldly walk out onto the lake.

Nahele was unsure about it, but he trusted her. He moved cautiously, daintily as he followed her out, and the sudden shock of cold water spray against his wildly spotted skin and his tiny hooves made him shiver all over.

Samirah stood there patiently, waiting. Water glistened off her sleek black coat. He stepped out even further, his eyes grown even wider with surprise that he was able to do what his dam did so effortlessly.

Even now the memory of his young, voice soothes her.

_Am I doing it right, Mama? Am I doing it right?_

_You're safe now_, Gaelen whispers softly inside Samirah's head. _I'll be right back._

* * *

"Mary?" John whispers softly. "Babe, talk to me."

It's the second incident in twenty minutes, stronger than the last time. Whatever this connection is, it's not gentle, it's violent, overwhelming. Mary moans out loud, a rough, desperate sound, as her eyes roll white and her head lolls forward onto John's broad chest.

"Oh my God," Deanna Campbell gasps. She sways on her feet, and Samuel Campbell puts his arms around her as he leans into her and steadies her. Campbell looks stoic, but the thin set of his mouth, the calm look on his face is deceiving.

"Dean," Mary whispers.

He holds Mary tight to him, and for a moment he can fool himself into thinking she's still alive. That he's still alive, that they're not spirits riding in an elevator at the Imperial Palace in Vegas. They have the illusion of life in this place. They can touch, and feel, but only within the warded boundaries of the Palace. Mary has no heartbeat, she doesn't really breathe, none of them do, but the illusion in this place is complete, and somehow comforting.

Mary digs her fingernails through John's shirt and his jacket as she clutches at him. The pain is bright and sharp, but he bears it willingly. He'll be her anchor. He has to be. If she lets go, she's lost, possibly forever.

The others stand around helplessly. Jim Murphy, Caleb and the Campbells are hunters, but this isn't something they can hunt down and kill. Tessa's the only non-human in the group and for a brief moment John feels anger at the female reaper, even though he knows he's being an ass about this whole thing. This isn't Tessa's fault.

Somehow, it's Dean's.

"Mary," John whispers. "I'm here. Stay with me, okay? Stay with me." He scoops her up in his arms, and that's the only jarring detail in all this, the one thing that destroys the illusion of normal: Mary's as light as a feather.

John nods at Tessa as the reaper hits the stop button for the eighth floor. Caleb and Jim Murphy take point out in the hallway. Tessa moves ahead and opens the door of the nearest room as the Campbells bring up the rear, behind John and Mary.

Mary's eyes flutter open. "J-John?"

"I'm here, baby."

She looks dazed, confused. "The light hurts my eyes. Where am I?"

"We were on our way down in the elevator," John whispers into the shell of Mary's ear. He steps into the room, hurries over to the bed with her as the rest follow him in. They stand around as he gently places her on the bed. "You called Dean's name and you passed out. What's going on?"

"Losing him," Mary moans out loud.

"Losing who?" John asks the question, but he already knows the answer.

He sees it in Mary's eyes. It's the damndest thing. Mary stares wide-eyed at something…someone…only she can see. John sees a reflection of copper tinted light that is all too familiar.

The dark shape in the center of the light is familiar, too. Those broad shoulders, the familiar set of that head, tilted slightly to one side.

"Dean," Mary whispers softly. "Johnnn…"

"I'm here, baby. I'm here."

"Dean's so angry. He thinks he's failed everything and everybody. He's…he's going to kill them."

"Kill who?"

"The people by the road. He's going to kill them all."

* * *

Dean's power sings underneath his skin. It flows into the air around him.

He'll help Samirah somehow. He has to.

He'll find Sam, Tiesen, Rika, and Chale.

He has to.

But right now Dean thinks of Samirah lying broken on the ground. Lillith maimed Samirah. She did it and laughed about it. Her time will come, but she's not here. These humans are.

This insult has to be avenged. Now.

"On your knees, bitch," Dean growls. His voice rolls like thunder. Power flexes in the air all around him. Battered road signs shake and rattle. Car alarms wail like lost children.

The woman tries to stop herself, but her body immediately responds to Dean's spoken command. She moves stiffly, with slow, jerky movements, her eyes wide with fear as she settles onto her knees.

Dean stares at the two Kibbe children, and then his gaze, moss green and bright copper, shifts back to Deputy Kibbe. "Those your kids?"

Her eyes widen in fear. "No. No, they're not-"

"Sure they are." Dean drawls lazily. "Rick and Paula, right?" The smile he gives Kibbe is bright and terrible. He unfreezes the boy and the girl where they stand, and sure enough they both rush over to her mother.

Kibbe goes deathly pale.

Her kids wrap themselves around her. The boy hugs his mother around her waist. The girl hugs her mom around her shoulders.

No one notices the slight displacement of air all around. Unseen threads of shifting pale energy gather, then become human-shaped, solid.

No one but Dean notices.

The reapers arrive.

They're all impossibly gaunt, deathly pale, dressed in dusty black suits. Their pale wrinkled faces are immovable, granite cliffs devoid of emotion. They have a job to do, and they are confident that Dean will do his.

Charlie the pet reaper isn't even worth a glance from any of the others. That one was young and stupid. He wanted an out from this unlife, intended to reap the Horseman's mount, and if Death wants to take the youngster, well, so be it. That's none of their concern. They're here for the humans.

Death understands that.

Three of them take up position near Darlene Kibbe and her children.

"Do whatever you want to me." Kibbe sounds surprisingly calm at first, all things considered. "The gun was my idea. Mine. No one else." Her voice cracks as she hugs her children. "Please. Don't hurt my kids. Please. Please don't-"

Dean likes the fear in her voice just fine. Back in the old times, back when he was fully Gaelen, he'd stood like this among reapers and humans alike. He never relished seeing fear or regret in human eyes then, never enjoyed seeing it, but he does now. Then he was a part of something bigger than himself, whether working alone or as a team with the others. Samirah stood by his side then.

And that's the whole point now.

"Your horse needed help -"

_"SHE DOESN'T NEED YOUR HELP!"_ Dean roars.

He could turn them all into dust with a gesture, but that would be too slow. He wants, no, _needs_ for them to see _this_ death coming.

Fire will do nicely.

A perfect circle of barely visible flame several inches tall appears in a ring around Dean. The wind picks up. It whistles and howls like a living thing, fanning the flames as it ripples through the grass at his feet. The color of the flames changes as the flames inch higher, from dull red to cherry red. The color deepens, to bright, clear copper orange. The sparse grass around Dean's feet blackens, and then just as suddenly, the flames fade out to white, then disappears altogether.

It's a neat trick. The Kibbes and the rest of the humans stare at Dean wide-eyed.

"You want to keep your family together?" Dean says brightly. He doesn't even wait for an answer. "I get it. I do. I can help you with that."

White hot flames reappear several feet away from each human. The wall of flame is a foot tall, and at least that wide. It makes its slow, patient way towards its victims. The sparse grass underfoot curls and blackens, the gravel fuses into brown, grey and black slag.

The reapers wait patiently, their pale wrinkled faces impassive, as devoid of all emotion as the rocky cliffs of a faraway mountainside.

The younger boy, Rick, turns his face into his mother's side. Kibbe's fingers shake slightly as she cards her son's hair. She gently kisses daughter Paula on her forehead. "Close your eyes," Kibbe whispers. "Don't look, babies, don't look…"

* * *

"Dean…nooo…" Mary moans. She leans into John, buries her face in his chest. "I love you, sweetie….don't do this…please…please don't…"

* * *

The wind picks up. The flames grow taller, dancing, shifting blades of hungry white flame.

"_Dean…"_

The word echoes insides Dean's head. For a moment, he doesn't recognize the voice. Dean's power sings underneath his skin, an ocean of unimaginable light and ancient power.

This voice, this whisper, is new. It's a small thing, really, but some of the biggest, most persistent things of power usually are.

"_Dean…"_

Dean wavers. The flames inch their way towards the Kibbes and the rest of the captive humans.

Unseen fingers gently glide across his right cheekbone.

"_I love you, sweetie…" _

Another light touch, this time ruffling the hair over his forehead. He smells peach scented hand lotion.

Scent of peanut butter cookies in the air around him (_baked them just for you, kiddo)_ and for one wild moment he feels warm water against his skin, and his nostrils flare at the scent of that Mr. Bubble bubble bath Mom knew he liked so much.

_Come on Dean, let's go for a ride, you wanna go to the park today, big fella? _

Dean shakes his head. _No. This is a trick, it has to be…_

It isn't. The touch is light and achingly familiar. He can't deny it. If he does, he'd be denying himself.

His power rises up, eternal, demanding _(they deserve this death, they all do)_ and the sound of Mary Winchester's voice inside her eldest son's head is a soft whisper that drowns out everything else.

"…_don't do this…please…please don't…"_

Dean stares at Darlene Kibbe and her children. The image of the woman deputy shifts, changes.

Mary Winchester sits on the ground where the Kibbe family once sat. Her long blonde hair gently frames her face. The long white gown she wears looks like the one she wore the last time Dean saw her alive.

The wall of flames is inches away from her now.

"No," Dean says out loud. He never told Sam or Dad what he saw that night. Never said he saw Mom on the ceiling.

"Please…" Dean groans. "Not again. Not again..."

This is terribly different, but it feels exactly the same.

She looked so pale, so sad that night. He was little. He was weak. He couldn't help her, and he's always hated himself for that.

"Mommm…" Dean's voice breaks. The sound is not one an adult would make. A Horseman has never sounded like that. This is the voice of a child faced with unimaginable loss, face to face with it again, after all this time.

Mary stares at Dean with love and affection, fierceness and unconditional love.

Gaelen never had that.

"_Hush little baby, don't say a word, Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"_

Gaelen's lullaby was hostile looks and whispers from his family ("That boy's unnatural, I tell you…spawn of the Devil.") and finally, on that late spring morning, the shrill sound of metal against metal as his own father stood in the barn, and sharpened his ax so he could use it on his only son.

Mary smiles at Dean. When she speaks he can't hear her voice over the crackle of the flames, but he hears her voice just the same.

"_Angels are watching over you, baby. They always are. Remember that…"_

A sudden spasm of grief and rage shudders through Dean. His broad shoulders shake. Those feathered fucks watched. That was_ all_ they did.

And he couldn't help her. Couldn't save her…

"_I love you, Dean. I always have."_

* * *

Miles away, cradled in John Winchester's arms, Mary smiles wearily. "…always have, always will…"

* * *

"Mom," Dean whispers brokenly. "'m sorry. 'm so damn sorry…"

The copper glow in his eyes dims. The great, terrible engine inside Dean Winchester comes to a sudden halt. Without his energies to sustain and guide them, the flames wink out of existence.

* * *

The reapers stand motionless. Silent, watchful.

Their faces flicker slightly.

This…this is a mistake. It has to be.

Death just stands there, resplendent in midnight black. He should have released all the humans there, should have killed them all, but he didn't. Instead his broad shoulders heave with silent sobs, tears stream down his impossibly handsome face.

Reapers have gained insight into human emotion from centuries of reaping humans. They've come to expect unpredictability. Humans are the biggest source of that in the universe.

Humans, not Horsemen. Even with everything that's happened so far, they were so sure that Death would play his role, especially after what nearly happened to his horse…

One of the reapers standing next to the Kibbe family steps forward. Its face is passive; there's no emotion, just a calm, inhuman mask. It's thought voice is calm, respectful, but firm: _What is the meaning of this?_

None of them are prepared for what the Horseman does next.

His head snaps up and his lips skin back from his teeth in a ferocious snarl. Those moss green eyes blaze copper bright and feral. A wave of energy reaches out and envelops each reaper, freezing them in place.

For the first time in existence, surprise and shock freezes those craggy faces, and then each reaper winks out in a haze of copper light.

And after a moment, Death does too.

* * *

It's as if they'd been playing a game of "Simon Says" and Simon finally said, "Simon says move."

All the humans on the highway unfreeze, one after another.

"Momma, what the hell just happened?" Paula Kibbe blurts out.

Darlene shakes her head. Even though she's warned Paula about that potty mouth of hers, the question's a damn good one.

And Kibbe doesn't have an answer.

Darlene hugs her kids so tight they fuss and grumble as she enjoys their warmth and heartbeats against her skin. "I don't know, baby. I just don't know."

* * *

Tension flows out of Mary's body like a river overflowing its banks. John feels her breathing even out after Whatever this is, whatever this connection is, it lessens and dims.

"Mary?" John whispers, and he wonders exactly why he's whispering. Everyone else in the room stands quietly, solemnly, as if they were standing in a hospital waiting room inside of a hotel room high above the Vegas Strip.

"He's okay," Mary whispers softly.

"Are you okay?"

Another nod. Mary sighs and relaxes in John's embrace. She's too lulled to notice, but John doesn't relax. He's waiting for the next time, for the next bad thing to come rolling in. It _will_ happen, he's sure of it, especially in this place.

For a brief second John hears Sam's voice solemnly repeating the words he'd drilled into his sons so long ago: "Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. You can count on that."

* * *

**_Coming Attractions:_** Samirah and Dean reunite, and Samirah gets her four legged groove back. Castiel torments Sam and the Horsemen, and Circe makes Dean an offer he dare not refuse. Dean spends some quality time with Lillith and Abaddon, and some of the tourists at Treasure Island find that Vegas is not all it's cracked up to be. Things get bad at the Imperial Palace, and the situation at the Roadhouse goes downhill.


	54. Chapter 54

_**Chapter 54**_

_**A/N: **_Soundtrack for this chapter - "Cold Case Theme - The Long Version" by E.S. Posthumus

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

A black Escalade pulls up outside Leone's Pizza Palace in Chicago. The vehicle looks normal, but the beings inside are anything but.

No one notices, but that's because the street is deserted. The sky overhead is bright and sunny, yet hailstones the size of silver dollars rain down from the sky. When the hailstones hit the ground, bright yellow and orange flames erupt out of thin air. The flames eat into concrete, canvas awnings, tree limbs, then just as suddenly wink out.

Old Famine frowns at the thump of frozen hellfire on the roof above his head. His wispy white hair frames his thin face like a halo. The old Horseman wheezes heavily despite his nasal cannula. He looks almost skeletal, little more than pale, sickly skin stretched tightly over sharp angular bones. The black suit he wears is a size too big, but even so his stomach is bigger than it should be for his thin frame. He can never get enough to eat, but that's the way it's always been with him. Old Famine thinks of the Famine in this reality, that female and her big white horse, and his lip curls up in a sneer. Stupid bitch and her stupid damn horse.

The seven demons sitting around him occupy four male and three female meatsuits, all stolen, all live meat, at least for the moment. Old Famine can't abide being around dead flesh. The very idea bothers him. He can't inspire that terrible hunger in dead things anyway. He likes routine, so he's dressed his servants in signature black suits and black sunglasses.

He can't tell what they're thinking, and quite frankly, doesn't care. Demons are stupid, but useful. He's already killed two of them back home in order to power their journey over here, and they have to know that he'll kill two or three more for the return trip. Doesn't matter. Each one thinks the other will die.

"Come on then," Old Famine snaps. His fingers shake as he gestures at the pizza storefront. "We don't have all day. Go get my brother."

The demons pretend not to notice the fleeting look of panic on his withered face. "The sooner you bring him here, the sooner we can leave this place."

The demons move out briskly. Old Famine shakes his head, makes a soft sound of disgust as doors are opened and everyone leaves except the driver. Her chauffeur's cap is set straight, her smooth red hair brushed back from her shoulders. She stares straight ahead with a slight smile on her perfect, heart-shaped face. He thinks she knows she'll be the only one he won't touch, the one he'll leave alive, and only because he can't drive the damn SUV himself.

The sky continues to spit fire, and none of the demons outside flinch, not even when stray embers spark and singe their hair and clothes. They bat the sparks out and walk into the pizza place without blinking an eye.

The ancient Horseman shudders as he looks around. He hates this place. The rules are twisted here. Unnatural. There was a time when he would have flung his power outward, would have amused himself by making the humans hiding in the buildings around him come down with that awful, consuming hunger. They would have poured out onto the streets, would have eaten each other alive, literally. Old Famine would have clapped his hands in delight as he watched.

He doesn't dare do that now. He's acutely aware that this dimension is teetering on the brink of oblivion, but that's not what stays his hand. It's best to keep a low profile this time, and that's the first time in his immortal life he's ever done that. He watches the singed red and white checkered awning over the front door, and all he can think of is a vengeful green-eyed Horseman on a huge black horse.

The Horsemen over here are young. They're strong and beautiful, and they actually ride horses. How literal.

Worse than that, they actually ride together. And they seem to enjoy each other's company.

Disgusting.

Where he comes from Horsemen don't ride together that often, not unless they absolutely have to. That's mainly because they can't stand each other's company for any length of time.

Old Famine has always been closer to Old Death. Pestilence is a loner. Always has been. He definitely doesn't play well with others. Best to let him be. He's more comfortable spreading his maggots, flies and disease germs anyway.

Famine's never cared for War. War is too hot blooded, too arrogant. He's the most physically fit one of them all. Eons ago War was fascinated with gunpowder, spears, catapults, vats of burning oil. Not anymore. He's adopted all these shiny new things like his red classic mustang, that accursed smartphone, those fancy designer clothes. He uses the internet and those Twitter and Facebook things to whip the humans up into a murderous frenzy. When he gets bored War goes on the internet and incites cyber-bullying. He has thousands of victims to his credit that way. Some of them have committed murder, others suicide.

_Cyberbullying._ Old Famine shakes his head ruefully at the thought. The old ways are the best. These new things? No craftsmanship. No style.

His eyes narrow as his demons reappear. They carry Old Death slumped over between them, shielding him from the hailstones above with their suit jackets. Old Famine sees a flash of pale skin, glimpses that raw, red handprint. He nearly strangles on the need to send his power out, to kill hundreds, thousands of humans. He doesn't.

"You old fool," Old Famine murmurs to himself. "You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" He won't chastise his brother Horseman in public, not around the demons, their inferiors. That can wait until later.

_You came over here,_ Old Famine thinks to himself, _tried to impose your will on this Death. And look where it got you. There is no natural order in this place. Not any more. _

When the doors slide open the demons gently place Old Death onto the center seat. His resemblance to a fragile, broken bird is remarkable, and somehow unsettling. His glassy grey eyes blearily focus on his brother.

"…yuh…you…came…"

All Old Famine can do is nod as the demons take their seats inside the vehicle and close the doors behind them.

"…too weak…" Old Death murmurs. He sways in his seat as one of the demons carefully fastens his seatbelt and shoulder strap around him. He slumps forward tiredly, despite the restraints. He's so pale and washed out, that handprint on his throat seems realer than the rest of him.

"We have to leave now, but it's all right. You can eat on the way," Old Famine nods at the demons who sit on either side of his brother. "I brought lunch."

Old Death smiles.

* * *

There are no people here. Never have been, and that's the whole point. This place is wild, unspoiled, one step removed from our reality. Dense green forests in the valley, towering granite mountains nearby, pure white beaches. There is life here, of course, just not the human kind. That was never intended in the grand plan here. Brightly colored seabirds wheel overhead. Small weasel like critters crouch nervously in the shadows at the treeline fifty feet away and stare at the newcomers on the beach. The little critters are always in motion, curious about everything, but they're smart enough not to come any closer.

The great horse lies still and quiet; her only movement is the labored rise and fall of her barrel as she breathes. Her rider sits in the sand next to her head. He's as still as a statue, the expression on his face eerily calm, almost blank, as he stares at his companion.

There was a time when they enjoyed being in this place.

This was freedom, this was peace, at least for a while. No human civilizations to destroy or lay to rest. Nothing to do but be free and be themselves.

The last time they were here Samirah danced on the surface of the ocean waves like a frisky newborn. She charged down the beach, kicking up waves of water as she ran. Half a mile away she discovered a huge waterfall that flowed over rough brown rocks, and she ran and nimbly skipped over the rocks for a short time before came back.

Gaelen shed his boots, cassock and greatcoat and walked out onto the water. He knelt and lazily ran his fingers underneath the waves. Small fish gathered to nibble at his fingertips, but then the sharks came and the small fry scurried away. The great whites ranged around Gaelen in a circle as he knelt there.

The largest one, a magnificent female, rose up from the depths and gently nuzzled the side of Gaelen's foot. It was a friendly gesture, awkward and somehow endearing ("Howdy!") from one death to the biggest one.

The shark swam away smiling as Gaelen laughed out loud.

That was then. This is now, and this is definitely _not_ a happy time.

Over in the so-called "real world", by the highway, Dean's rage blinded him from seeing what Samirah really looked like. In some perverse way he was grateful for that.

Now Dean can't look away. His expression is curiously blank, his eyes slightly widened. A muscle in his right jaw twitches slightly as he stares at her delicately dished profile. Not so delicate now; it's thinner, almost skeletal. Her eyes are closed, but not all the way. There's an icy white reflection that curves just underneath those long, dark eyelashes of hers.

Dean swallows past that suddenly hard lump in his throat.

Samirah seems smaller somehow. Her coat is rough and dry, a washed out grey, not glossy midnight black. Each rib is outlined underneath her thin, fragile coat.

The world seems to draw away from them; horse and man are in their own little bubble now. The snap and hiss of blue-green waves on white sand recedes into the background. Samirah's breathing, rough and labored, is the only sound that matters to Dean now.

The blankness on his face softens as he stares at her. She seems at peace now, but that's a lie and he knows it. He can hear Lillith's white darkness rumbling underneath her skin.

There's not much time left, and Dean knows that too.

Right hand's still no good, still a stump, and that's all. He can't even feel his phantom fingers anymore. That doesn't matter. Not anymore. He ignores his missing hand, just as he ignores Samirah's mangled right foreleg. He will not look at it again. Dean uses his teeth to remove his left glove. He leans forward as he reaches out with his left.

One hand is all he needs, for what he has in mind.

"It's me," Dean says softly. "I'm here."

Silence flows into the moment that follows. Dean listens for Samirah's answer. There isn't one. His shoulders slump slightly.

"I knew you'd remember this place. You always liked it here. I didn't forget." Dean gently, softly, cards her forelock with his fingers. Her normally fine, luxurious hair feels thin and dry now.

Samirah's breathing softens a little, and Dean's mask drops all the way, right along with his defenses. He doesn't look vast and powerful and eternal as he did mere moments before. He looks young and somehow vulnerable. His eyes are moist, too bright with the knowledge that he's facing a yet another loss he's not sure he can take.

The rest of the Horsemen are missing. And the way Samirah looks now is just more proof of how useless he is. He ruins everyone he touches.

"Don't be mad at me," Dean whispers hesistantly.

The next inhale Samirah takes sounds shocked, angry. She doesn't open her eyes, but her nostrils flare wider than they did before. He can almost imagine her glaring at him, eyes open, ears pricked.

"I've got something in mind. Might be a way to get you clear of this." He strokes her jibbah, the slight bulge of her forehead. It's funny, he'd always thought that was where her soul and her personality resided, barely caged inside that hard head of hers. Human horsemen think the jibbah is just an oversized sinus cavity in the Arabian horse, but Dean knows better.

Dean's eyes grow distant, unfocused. "I don't know if it's even gonna work, but I've got to try it. I don't know what else to do." He frowns as he comes back to himself.

Dean closes his eyes as he takes a long, slow breath that makes his throat and chest hitch. When he opens his eyes again a single tear slides down one finely chiseled cheekbone. "I can't heal you. Chale can. And I don't know where he and Sam and Tiesen and Rika are. I wanted to kill those people by the highway for you." He sniffs noisily. "Couldn't do it. I think I'm losing my fucking mind…my...my Mom…I thought I saw her here…" Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

Samirah whickers at him, a soft, low sound, a faint echo in the space behind Dean's eyes.

…_it's all right…_

Dean's green eyes widen in shock, then spark bright copper in response.

Gaelen's here now.

"Every time I dreamed about you," Gaelen says with a sad, quiet smile, "that was the first time in my life I knew who I was. Who I was meant to be all along. You were well named. You were always my entertaining companion, and there were times when I knew…when I thought you deserved better than me. I'm sorry I left you before. I never meant to cause you pain."

Gaelen cocks his head slightly to one side. White static rises up inside Samirah. He can't make out the words this time.

It's time.

Gaelen sits back, and then stands up in one smooth motion.

He's Gaelen, he's Dean, and neither one knows exactly where the other one ends. Gaelen recedes, but he doesn't go very far. Dean staggers a little. He turns his back on Samirah, stares out at the ocean and the far horizon. Breaking contact like that makes him feel like he's dying inside, but he backs up, takes a few steps away from her. He stares at her broken body and his face twists into an expression of exquisite pain and grief.

The sky overhead darkens in response. Thick clouds roll in, backlit by gigantic flashes of lightning.

He wants to scream out loud. Wants to shake Heaven's rafters, wants to scream until the ground beneath his feet cracks and Hell itself rises up, spills up and over. Falling apart like that is the one thing he can never allow himself to do.

The next breath Dean takes is a long, slow shudder that makes his chest hitch. He turns and stares at Samirah, and his expression changes. It's not that carefully crafted mask. Dean's mouth firms up into a thin line. There's an equally hard glint in his eyes.

_God said she could depend on me,_ he thinks to himself. _Depend on me fucking everything up. Sometimes it seems that's all I do. All those times I should have stayed dead, I kept coming back. And I keep messing up everyone I love. Everyone._

He turns and stares at Samirah. His lips firm into a hard, thin line.

_Not anymore. Not this time. _

The sky overhead lightens back to that perfect blue.

Samirah's breathing roughens_. …what…what are you... doing…_

"I'm making this up as I go along," Dean murmurs. His eyes glow copper as he sharpens his focus. He places his left hand on her right shoulder, palm down, fingers spread. His left hand shimmers with copper highlights.

His eyes unfocus as he stares at Samirah's grayish black coat. He sees the whiteness inside her, feels the weight of it.

Gaelen remembers bringing Death. The first job he'd gone on, he'd walked slowly, calmly, through a crowd of humans. One of the townspeople snarled at Gaelen as he pushed past him, unaware that he was rushing towards eternity. That brief contact, shoulder brushing against shoulder, was all it took. The man turned instantly pale, dead and lifeless before he hit the ground.

He wasn't the first, and he certainly wasn't the last.

Gaelen walked through the crowd that day, barely brushing his fingers against bare skin. Hearts stuttered to a complete stop in seconds. Electrical impulses in human brains all around him flickered out like candles in a high wind. Some of the humans suspected who he was, and they ran.

He and Samirah made sure they didn't get far.

The entire city died that day, and Gaelen didn't give it much thought. It was what he was created for, after all. He never had to be shown, or taught. He just knew. He couldn't explain, couldn't find the words to describe how it felt.

Just like this. He's making this up as he goes along. It's damned crazy, and it doesn't make sense.

It's the only option he has for Samirah now.

Dean feels the weight of the Spear of Destiny in the hidden space at his back, between his cassock and hooded greatcoat.

The weight reminds him of Sam.

It's only fitting. Sam helped him out in the desert, when Uriel tried to kill him with the damned thing. Sam was there when Dean stashed the useless thing back there, apparently just on a whim, for all the good it's done so far.

Dean thinks of the first time he saw Sam after Devil's Gate.

He sees it in his mind's eye, as clear as if it were yesterday. Anna and Uriel and Castiel stand behind Sam, and they're smiling as though they're all such good damn friends. They come to make a deal, Dean can be Heaven's bitch instead of Lillith, but Dean looks at Sam and sees the truth.

Sam's afraid of him. That's bad enough. What's worse is the damage Sam took, the damage Uriel tried to hide by healing Sam.

_Time for you to learn to respect your elders, mud monkey boy._

_Because of me,_ Dean thinks. _They beat my brother because of me._

Sam was a spirit then, but he could still be hurt. If the flesh has sense memory, then the soul surely has sense memory too.

Two black eyes, three broken ribs. Right arm broken in two places, and that was just for starters. Sam sustained severe internal injuries that would have killed a normal person, but an angel, damn their feathered ass, could keep a soul on the edge, writhing in misery.

Which was what Uriel did.

Uriel was the one that Dean was really interested in, but the others would pay for this too.

Dean pulled the memory of Sam's injuries into him that day. He felt his jaw fracture, his right arm break in two places.

He doesn't keep it. That's the trick, the point of the whole thing.

Dean surges behind Anna, Castiel and Uriel in a blur of motion. He reaches out and touches them, gives them the same kind treatment Uriel gave Sam.

Anna's nose crumples just like Sam's did. Dark red blood gushes over her upper lip, down her chin.

Castiel's arm breaks, dark purplish bruises bloom over both eyes.

Uriel's jaw fractures, and the angels gasp and moan as the violence that was done to Sam Winchester in secret finally sees the light of day.

Dean comes back to himself. He can hear Lillith's white darkness as it buzzes and snaps underneath Samirah's skin. It coats her muscles and her bones.

That well-known copper spark ignites in Dean's eyes. He focuses his power through his skin, sends it downward, into Samirah's body.

It's a simple thing really. Just a touch. His fingertips turn pale as Lillith's white darkness seeps up through Samirah's pores and curls around his flesh.

The whiteness seems to laugh. It's not words, but Dean hears it all the same. _That all you got, boy?_

"Not quite," Dean mutters. "Come home to Papa, you sonofabitch."

He jerks forward as he hooks his power into the damned thing. Dean steadies himself, and then he pulls backward. Hard.

Samirah bucks upward. Her three good legs flail violently, then she falls back onto her side. Her eyes open. They're white, not copper bright. She tosses her head.

Samirah screams.

She breathes hard and fast now. Dean can feel the rapid inhale and exhale of her lungs. Her heart thunders in her chest.

Dean opens himself wide.

The darkness rushes in.

He jerks upright as a tidal wave of whiteness flows up his left arm underneath his clothes. The chords in his neck strain and tighten, and his jaws snap together painfully as he bites back the scream that rises in his throat. Whiteness fills the world, shrieking and laughing, and it's worse than it ever was before.

Dean can't move; he's frozen in place. All over his body the veins and blood vessels underneath his skin bulge up, thick and throbbing. Dean exhales thin wisps of white vapor. Thin trails of white flow out of his tear ducts, from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

His skin is glazed with the stuff. He turns pale white in a heartbeat; his freckles disappear. The whiteout rises up all around him.

Samirah's still now, still as death. He can't even tell if she's breathing or not.

_Please…_Dean thinks to himself.

_Please…_Gaelen murmurs.

It's not enough, not yet. He has to take it all in, has to keep it all.

Another wave of white flows over him, then sinks deep within his skin. Dean jerks backward with the impact, but he refuses to let go. His hand never leaves Samirah's right shoulder.

He blinks at her, whiteness caking those impossibly long, dark eyelashes of his, and that's when he sees it.

Samirah glows.

It's faint at first. The copper bright glow starts in her jibbah, and flows down her body, growing, brightening. The color of Samirah's coat deepens to a splendid midnight black.

Dean watches as the bones in Samirah's right foreleg pushes back underneath her skin. Her leg straightens out as the bones mend back together. Her smooth skin knits itself back in place, perfect, without a blemish.

Samirah tosses her head. She takes a deep breath, and then another.

Horses are creatures of flight; an apocahorse is no different. They're all built to move, and even on the edge of consciousness Samirah follows her own natural instincts. She lunges forward, puts all four good legs underneath her and scrambles to her feet even before her eyes are fully open. She rears and paws at the bright blue sky overhead.

A single tear slides over Dean's finely chiseled right cheekbone.

As Samirah rises, Dean falls.

His head rocks back as his eyes roll white into his head. Dean's hair lightens to a peculiar whitish blonde, and as he falls the blackness of his clothing fades out to white, from his neck and shoulders all the way down to the soles of his boots. Dean lands hard on his side in an awkward sprawl. All of the color has washed out of him; he's as white as the sand around him.

He hears the crack of bone as his right leg shatters.

The sound of Samirah's hoofbeats as she runs down the beach follows him down into the white dark.

* * *

Brunch is one of the things that God is definitely glad She created.

She goes down the buffet line, carefully picks out several delicacies she hasn't tried yet. Hasn't tried the lasagna yet. The crab legs look very good today. So do the spareribs, and the garden shrimp pasta. God's also very glad she created the Chef and his staff on this cruise ship, too. _Not too shabby_, she thinks to herself.

The desert line looks fabulous but there's plenty of time, She thinks. No sense in engaging in gluttony.

She sensed him a few minutes before. The futile effort he made to conceal himself made her laugh fondly. Her boy's learned some tricks out here in the world, but it's not enough, not against her.

He must care a lot about his life here, if he came out of hiding to confront her.

The last person in the line in front of her is a dark haired young man wearing khaki pants and a simple white shirt. He fidgets in place, and that bothers Her a little. Good Grief, the boy's afraid? Of Her? Is _that_ why he left?

"Hello, Gabriel," God says warmly.

He turns, glances up at her face and then ducks his head again. "Uh…Hello, Mother."

"Hello, baby."

"Are you going to smite me?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Well…no."

"You look thin. Are you eating enough? Here. Try the sirloin steak strips. Put some meat on your bones."

Gabriel frowns. "I didn't come here to eat."

"Well, why not?" God turns towards the buffet. "Umm…kiwi, pineapple chunks, and sliced strawberries. That would be good for dessert. You look like you need some vitamin C and some fiber, kiddo."

Gabriel seems surprised he's still in one piece. He scowls as he shakes his head. "I can't believe you're going to let all this end."

"I don't have much to say about how this goes. And this isn't over yet. It's all about free will." God rolls her eyes. "I had this same conversation with Michael and Luci."

Gabriel looks around, suddenly wary. "Are they-"

"No. Michael's gone to Vegas to watch the show. Lucifer went home."

"You're going to stay out here, then? You're not going to stop this?"

"No."

"If you cared, you wouldn't have left in the first place."

God quirks an eyebrow at her wayward son. "That's my line, isn't it?"

_Oh._ "Uh, are you going to smite me now?"

"No. I'm going to sit at the table over there. I like to watch the ocean while I eat. Get your plate and come join me, will you? We'll talk."

* * *

_**A/N:**_ Not my usual evil cliffie, I know. Next chapters will be posted next week, along with the last installment of _Appointment With Samirah_.


	55. Chapter 55

**_A/N:_** For those of you who wondered how Circe and the forces of Heaven and Hell tormented Sam, Tiesen, Rika, and Chale, wonder no longer. Weird imagery ahead. Soundtrack for this one? "Time Has Come Today" by the Chamers Brothers.

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 55**_

"I want the boy," the blue eyed angel in the tan trenchcoat says. "I want the abomination."

How rude. Circe hates the idea of working with these creatures, but she's careful not to show it. She nods slightly instead. "As you wish."

Despite her hidden annoyance, several of the new and improved hellhounds prick their ears up alertly. Their mistress is happy, and that's an emotion they have never sensed from her before. It makes them feel uneasy, but they obediently remain in their places around the shore of the lake.

Still, Circe has every reason to feel proud of herself. She stares at the captive images in the ice around her, but she knows that up above the roof of hell, miles above her head, in that place called Las Vegas, the vaulted Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their mounts have been laid low. Each one is encased in a cocoon of grayish brown leeches. The creatures have flattened out now and molded themselves even closer around their victims.

Curiously enough, the leeches haven't covered their victims completely. On Horseman and Apocahorse alike, only the eyes, blank and unfocused, are left uncovered. There's a reason for that.

The eyes truly are the windows to the soul.

Sam Winchester's eyes spark dark yellow, a faint, glowing ember. The eyes of the rest glow with that well known copper spark, dim and weak.

The leeches are of her own creation, a little amusement she conjured up one day that surprised her with all its possibilities. The abilities that her victims have are hers now. But in order to torment such powerful beings such as these, there's one more touch that's called for.

The purpose of this whole exercise is not to kill, but to make their lives a living hell.

Circe chants.

"_Mauris nisi velit, euismod et varius eu, velit nec bibendum tempus…"_

Her words flow up into the air, tiny pinpoints of swirling red light. The hounds prick their ears, cock their heads alertly as they crane their necks to watch. The lightshow rises up into the dank redness of hell.

"_Integer porttitor viverra tellus, a porttitor leo molestie id. Sed tempor…"_

Seconds later the lightshow pushes itself past the concrete in the bus yard. The lights pair off into twos, one pair for each Horseman and each Apocahorse. The lights rise into the air above them, and then downward, pushing deep inside each eye socket, quickly, brutally, with enough force to make Sam, Rika, Chale and Tiesen's backs arch painfully. Ajani, Ishmael, Actaeon and Nahele jerk upwards and then back onto the ground.

Circe laughs. Her eyes spark blood red and their eyes flash blood red in response.

She tilts her head to one side as she considers their hidden fears, laid open before her like the pages of a book. They're linked to her now, exposed and vulnerable. Even in their weakened state, ah, there is still such power in these wayward children!

It's time to play with them a little.

Sam keeps his eyes closed. He breathes slowly, in and out. His head hurts, a low mean ache that's settled down behind his eyes, down his neck and shoulders. His skin feels funny, tingly, and he can't understand why he has this nasty, slimy taste in his mouth. He takes inventory as best as he can, doesn't want to reveal that he's awake. At least, not yet, anyway.

As far as he can tell he still has all his limbs, his fingers, and toes. He's on the ground. Yeah. Feels like concrete. There's movement all around him, but he can't place the sounds.

Then: "Dude. Come on. Quit playing possum. You're not fooling anybody."

Dean.

It's Dean. He sounds calm, even snarky.

Sam actually chuckles to himself. Everything's all right. Dean's here. If Dean's here, then this is over-

Sam opens his eyes. Huh, not such a good idea after all. His head still hurts, and the bright sunlight hurts his eyes even more. But it's not dark outside. It's light. This must be over. They must have won, otherwise why would the sun be out if the world was ending?

Sam blinks.

Everything's yellow.

His vision wavers, but the yellow doesn't go away.

Sam stops the silly business of trying to blink whatever this is away. He focuses on what's important, on the person crouching easily in front of him.

Dean's dressed in worn blue jeans, scuffed brown work boots, that black t shirt. He has his brown leather jacket on, and the collar of the jacket is flipped up, same as always.

A few feet away behind Dean Rika, Tiesen and Chale stand side by side with their horses.

Nobody looks happy to see Sam.

"D-Dean?" Sam croaks. "Wha…what happened?"

Dean's smile is wistful, sad. He spreads his hands wide for a moment. He actually looks apologetic. "Sorry, dude. I was wrong."

Hot breath scorches the back of Sam's neck just as something hard slams into the back of his head and neck. He sees white stars, whole constellations as he face plants into the concrete.

_Hit me…_he thinks dazedly to himself. _Somebody hit me…_

The air rumbles like thunder all around him. Sam feels a surge of pure terror as he shakily raises up onto his hands and knees.

It's Samirah.

The huge black Arabian mare walks into Sam's line of sight from his right. She tosses her head angrily as she glares at him with her ears pinned back. Dean sighs as she grumbles wordlessly at him. "Okay. You were right about him all along. I should have listened to you."

"Dean…what's…what's going on?"

Dean shrugs. "I made a mistake. I screwed up, that's what's going on."

Dean stands up, and as he rises his clothes shift into sleek Horsemen black. His eyes blaze copper bright for a second, and Rika, Tiesen and Chale's eyes blaze in response, as do the eyes of all the Apocahorses. "They're my family, Sam. Not you. Not any more."

The Horsemen nod in silent agreement. Nahele refuses to look at Sam. Samirah stands alongside him, and her tense body posture softens as she nuzzles her son tenderly.

"I should have known better, Sam. You can't change what's inside you. I thought you could, but I should have known better to trust you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Anyway, this is me you're talking to, remember? Dude, don't play dumb. You're not very good at it."

"I don't-"

"Stop it, Sam. You turned on us once we got here. Nearly got us all killed."

"Dean, wait, I didn't…this isn't right-"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sure it is. You're tainted. Mom died because of you." Dean nods at Sam's hands. "See? You can't hide what you are anymore."

Sam glances down, and his eyes widen in shock. His skin is scaly, pale yellow.

His hands look inhuman now. His fingernails are claws.

Dean shakes his head sadly. He has the look of a man who'd hoped against hope that everything would turn out all right, but he now realizes he hoped in vain. "See?" Dean says softly. "It came out. You can't hide what you really are, Sam. You can't."

Samirah steps up next to Dean, and the huge black horse tacks up in a shimmer of blue light. Dean gathers the reins and swings into the saddle.

"Dean, please, no, wait…."

Dean won't look at him.

The other Horsemen turn and mount up. They won't look at him.

They're leaving him.

"…don't leave me…"

Dean's leaving him.

"…please…don't leave me…"

Samirah wheels around smartly, her ears pricked, eyes bright and alert as she stares at the distant horizon. Rika, Tiesen, Chale and their mounts have the same look.

Dean does too. He won't look in Sam's direction. Sam feels something break inside him. He's filled with the sour taste of fear and loss.

"Dean…please…please don't…" Sam raises up on his knees. He reaches out to Dean, and his hand shakes. His claw-tips skate harmlessly over the black material of Samirah's saddle cloth and over the ankle of Dean's sleek black boot. Dean doesn't react, he doesn't even look down.

None of them do.

Someone chuckles from behind. "Ah, Sammy, you're breaking my heart with this."

Cold steel bites into the thin skin of his neck, and Sam dully realizes that he's wearing a chain collar. He's jerked backwards, and for a moment the chain bites into his skin so tightly that the whole world is blotted out by soft grey that threatens to swallow him up. He can't see, and he can't breathe.

When he comes out of it Dean and the Horsemen are gone.

The man holding the end of the chain around Sam's neck laughs, bright and cheerful. Sam stares up at him in total shock.

"Hello, kiddo. Long time, no see," Azazel drawls cheerfully. "I missed you, buddy."

"No...you can't be…you're dead," Sam gasps. He claws at the chain around his neck, and that doesn't do any good at all.

"It's a day for surprises, now isn't it?" Azazel drawls lazily. "You really hurt my feelings by picking your family over me. After all the good times we had together."

Sam's head rocks back as Azazel strikes him in the face. "Big bro finally left _you_, huh? Imagine that."

"Yuh…you did something to Dean-"

"Nah." Azazel grins at the backs of the departing Horsemen. "I can't take credit for that. Ol' Deano just got tired of you, Sammy. It happens." Sam's jerked upward and forward until he and the yellow eyed demon are nose to nose. "School's in session now, Sammy. You got some long overdue lessons to learn, boyo."

Another blow to the face, and Sam feels something warm and slick splatter against his skin. His left cheekbone collapses with an audible crunch. Azazel continues to pound him; one bone after another breaks.

Sam doesn't grey out. He doesn't black out either, and that's definitely not a mercy.

_He left me. Dean left me…_

* * *

Castiel wipes blood from his upper lip. His intense blue eyes flash dangerously. He feels emotions he hasn't felt in eons, namely bright, hot rage mixed with hatred.

Sam Winchester doesn't react as Castiel stands over him. The angel draws back his left foot and kicks the Horseman in the face.

Winchester doesn't react to that either. His body jerks, but his eyes remain glazed over. The leeches hold firm.

The witch's tone appears sincere, respectful, but Castiel's not fooled. That insincerity bothers him. The idea that he has to work with these hellish abominations sends a shiver of revulsion through his soul. And to add insult to injury, this one, this demon tainted boy, struck him.

Hurt him.

Castiel's eyes spark with celestial fire. His wings curve darkly around him as he draws back his foot and kicks the Winchester boy again.

* * *

It's dark. Chale hears the buzzing first.

He comes back to himself slowly. It takes a moment or so for him to realize that he's on his knees. The first thing he sees is his horse, Ishmael.

Ishmael is dead. Has been for quite some time. Chale can see the horse's skeleton through the thin and tattered grey strips of hide that still cling to the bones. Black flies rise into the air when Chale moves, then they alight on Ishmael again.

_No…_

More bodies are scattered all over the ground.

Tiesen and his horse Ajani died together. Samirah lies on her side a few feet away, Gaelen slumped over her neck and shoulders.

Sam and Nahele lie crumpled together a few feet away.

_No…_

Chale shakes his head in disbelief. The bodies look shrunken somehow. The skin looks diseased, dotted with clusters of boils and scabs.

He stares at the building in front of him. It's the Roadhouse. The door is open. Chale doesn't have to look too closely to see Ellen Harvelle's body lying on the floor over to the side.

There's Bast. Bobby Singer. Ash. Rumsfeld2. All lying motionless.

All dead.

_No…_

Chale struggles to his feet, swaying in place, and he stumbles over the cracked and broken concrete. He doesn't have enough strength to bat the angry flies away from his face. They buzz angrily in the air all around him.

He can still sense life in this place, but it's dying slowly.

Chale finds Rika and her horse Actaeon lying on the ground at the side of the Roadhouse. The white horse is dead. Rika isn't. Not yet. She sits propped up against Actaeon's side. Her head jerks slowly as she realizes Chale's standing over her.

"Sister…" Chale stammers, and she smiles faintly at the word. "What…what happened here?"

"You did, brother…you killed us."

"I didn't…I couldn't…" He falls to his knees next to her, and Rika flinches painfully when Chale reaches out to her.

"You did," Rika whispers faintly. "We came back from that Vegas place. Injured. Hurt. Had to fall back." She swallows thickly. "You tried to heal us. You killed us all instead…"

"I didn't do that. I couldn't…" Chale drops to his knees next to her. He reaches out, takes her slender right hand in his oversized hands.

Rika flinches as he touches her. "Don't…don't touch me…."

Her back arches painfully when he touches her hand. Chale sees the disease and the boils erupt throughout Rika's slender frame. He jerks his hand back, but it's too late. She's gone.

He's the only one left.

All Chale can do is kneel there as the flies buzz angrily around him. He stares at Rika's shrunken face, and only one thought goes through his mind, over and over again.

_I killed them. I killed them all…_

* * *

"Get up. Please…please, get up."

Actaeon won't listen to her. First time in her life she won't listen to her.

Her white horse is so still and quiet there on the ground, and she won't get up. She looks too thin, skeletal, actually, and Rika knows that's not right.

Rika nearly gags at that funny taste in her mouth. It tastes like slimy, rotten fruit, but she can't remember eating anything. The light in the dining room is soft white. She recognizes the place, knows she's back home now, back at the farm. Her eyes hurt too, even though the light in the dining room is soft.

She can't remember how she got there, or when.

There are five people sitting at the table. Rika sways a little as her eyes go in and out of focus. She still can't see too well when her vision finally does clear, but she sees enough. Gaelen. Sam. Chale and Tiesen.

They all look like they haven't eaten in years.

She squints at the fifth man. He's dressed in simple brown clothing, not Horseman armor, slumped back against the tall wooden chair, his mouth open, eyes closed, his skin pulled too tightly over his cheekbones.

"Gaelen?" Rika murmurs. Gaelen's not listening.

None of them are.

Rika glances out of the huge glass window. She sees what looks like large piles of sticks and tattered leather heaped on the ground outside.

It's Samirah, Actaeon, Nahele and Ajani. Rika sees strips of dull skin stretched over sharp edged bones. The horses don't look right, and Rika can't remember what happened.

She can't remember how to fix this.

"Did you see what you did?" comes a voice from behind her. A woman's voice, and Rika staggers a little as she turns around.

Rik smiles. "Momma." Momma and Poppa always loved her, even more so after they found out what she was.

Momma nods sadly. She moves her right hand out from her side, and the knife blade she holds in her hand glints softly as it catches the light. "We thought you were special. We celebrated what you are. We were wrong." Momma nods at the corpses at the table. "Wrong about everything. Wrong about you."

Rika turns and stares at the men sitting at the table, and she blinks in amazement as she finally realizes how wrong she was. She finally recognizes the fifth corpse.

"You killed him," Momma grates out harshly. "You killed your own father…"

Rika backs up a little, but it's too little, too late. She's on her back now, and Momma's on top of her, holding her down, and it isn't fair and it isn't right. She's too weak for this, and she doesn't understand why.

_Not my life,_ Rika thinks wildly. _This was Gaelen's life, his family tried to kill him, not me, not me-_

"Hellspawn," Momma hisses viciously. She raises the knife and the blade in her hand flashes down, again and again.

* * *

_So much fun to play with,_ Circe thinks to herself.

The horror each Horseman endures will go on and on in a loop while Circe turns her attention to the last Horseman. War. He's a special request, in fact; it would not do to ignore this favor. She's aware that with Alastair's death there's a new order in hell. Best not to antagonize anyone, even though this part calls for a little more finesse.

* * *

The first thing Tiesen notices is the way his body aches all over. His mouth and throat taste absolutely foul.

He can't sense any of the others. He's totally headblind for the first time in his life.

Tiesen opens his eyes. The weight of his body comes rushing back, and he can tell without looking down at himself that he's wearing his red armor. Even though the sky overhead is still dark and stormy, the glare from the streetlights hurts his eyes. This street corner looks no different from the rest of this place. All concrete and bright lights. Not enough grass anywhere.

Plenty of humans, though.

He's standing in a circle of them. Several hundred of them, by the look of it. Men and women, young and old.

And they all have something in their hands.

Crowbars. Baseball bats. Machetes.

They know _what_ he is. Tiesen's sure of it. He recognizes the look in their eyes, a bright, murderous glint he's seen in the eyes of mankind throughout the ages. Sometimes he was responsible for that look and the death that came with it, some times the humans found their way there all on their own.

"Hello, Tiesen."

Tiesen turns in the direction of the voice. He already knows it's not Ajani, Gaelen, Rika, Sam or Chale.

There's a large moving truck sitting right behind the crowd. The Golden Retriever sitting on the roof of the truck flaps its wings at him.

"Glasya Labolas," Tiesen says grimly.

Damn. Tiesen glares at the humans, stares intently at their eyes. They're _not_ possessed. Not a black eye in the group, and that's a troublesome detail. The pup is a President of Hell, a commander of 36 legions of demons. Why would he come topside and not bring his troops with him?

The dog grins at him. "So you heard of me? I'm flattered."

"Don't be," Tiesen snaps. "What the hell do you want?"

"Want?" That toothy grin gets even wider. "I want to hear you scream. And beg. I've never liked you. You _do_ know that, right?"

This is getting boring. Tiesen rolls his eyes. Best to end this now and find the others.

Tiesen steps forward. _"Put your weapons down and get out of my way."_

It's his command voice, the one he's used throughout the ages. He can create calm and peaceful feelings if he so desires, could have just as easily told the mob to turn their weapons on themselves, but he's mindful of the fact that they came to this place to save human life, not destroy it.

Of course, if Gaelen, Ajani, or any of the others have been hurt by these bastards, he might have to rethink that quaint notion.

The humans just stand there. They don't stand down. They don't back off.

_Damn._

They rush in. Tiesen breaks the nose of the first man who reaches him. He strikes several others, but the rest flow in and roll over him like a tidal wave. He grunts as someone brings a crowbar down on his back. His arms are pinned, and the crowd presses down on his back, forcing him to his knees.

_Can't happen like this,_ Tiesen thinks wildly. _Not like this._ His power stutters inside him. He strains upwards, but he can't throw them off. One of the crowd hooks their arm around his throat, underneath his chin, forcing his head up and back.

Glasya yips happily. "What's the matter, Tiesen? Ah, it's so sad when the legend falls short."

A shudder ripples through the crowd as they listen to their master's voice. They tremble and quiver like hounds on a short leash.

The demon stands up and paces back and forth. "I've influenced humans all my life, but do I get any credit? Do I get any respect? No. They see this sweet little face of mine and I'm laughed at behind my back. You show up with that armor and that nag of yours, and those bastard brothers and sister of yours, and _you_ get instant respect. No one laughs at you." Glasya sits down and scratches at that spot behind his left ear with his hind leg. "Well. That's all changed now."

Glasya flaps those eagle wings of his once, then twice. "Tear 'em up!"

* * *

Tomorrow: Things get even stranger in Vegas; Samirah runs.


	56. Chapter 56

_**A/N**_: There really is an Imperial Palace on the Las Vegas Strip. I've taken liberties with the place. So what else is new? Soundtrack for Samirah's sequence: "August's Rhapsody." I first heard that instrumental on You Tube as the soundtrack for carlykaiser's moving tribute to the late great filly Ruffian: Ruffian's Rhapsody.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 56**_

The End of Everything in Vegas was a day for firsts.

Sometimes first _isn't_ a good thing.

* * *

_**Somewhere, somewhen…**_

The first reaper from the highway drops out of thin air twenty feet above the hard, rocky ground. It's not a very dignified entrance; the reaper hits hard. He barely has time to react before one by one the other three hundred or so reapers blink into view and pile right on top of him. Charlie the pet reaper is missing.

There's no grass, no mountains, nor blue ocean here. There's no color, no beauty. Everything is grey, cold, and monotonous.

The reapers in the dog pile shift and change, from black suits to wispy funeral shrouds. They float wraithlike as they rise up into the air. One reaper bumps into another one, a slight, insignificant touch, and that's all it takes.

The mood turns ugly in a less than a heartbeat.

The reapers shriek at each other. Their pale faces twist with rage as they strike out at one another. They use their hands, to bite and rip and tear. The air is a blur of white, shapeless bodies as they crowd against each other. Some of them even bite. It's misplaced aggression, pure and simple.

Reapers have never shown such raw, open anger before. They have never been disrespected like this before, interfered with, snatched away from their duties like that, by anyone, much less a Death Horseman.

The reapers screech at each other, and their anger is like a stone dropped into a pool. It ripples and spreads.

Reapers fade in on the outskirts of the Metropolitan Las Vegas area. They gather by the millions. They stand shoulder to shoulder, silent black clad ranks, pale and emotionless, on the outside, at least, and then as one, they turn their backs on the city and stand silently.

Darlene, Rick and Paula Kibbe and all the other refugees trying to leave Vegas run right into an invisible wall. They're stuck. Trapped.

Up on the hillside some of the gods groan and shake their heads. The Goddess Kali is particularly disturbed by this turn of events, but then she realizes the possibilities. Like the Horsemen, the reapers are refusing to do their jobs.

This is not necessarily a bad thing.

* * *

The human bitch standing a few feet away points her phone in Lillith's direction and snaps a couple of pictures. Lillith's moods are quicksilver now; one moment she preens, the next moment she turns absolutely murderous.

For the first time in her life, Lillith sheds her beauty and kills in plain sight.

Her perfect peach colored complexion darkens; bluish grey shadows slide underneath the surface. Her nose flattens and widens as twin sets of long, twisted horns push their way out from underneath her platinum blonde hair. Her crystal blue pupils go to slits, and as if that wasn't bad enough, her eye sockets enlarge to twice their normal size. Lillith sways from side to side; the eyes of the humans nearest her glaze over. They stand rooted to the spot. They copy the motion like rabbits hypnotized by a cobra.

Little Miss Smartphone is too engrossed to notice. She dies with her head twisted all the way back around. She has a death grip on her phone for all eternity as she drops bonelessly to the pavement.

Dean could have told them all about what lies beneath, but that's the whole point: Dean's not here.

She made herself beautiful just for him, fought her way out from under that damned parasite just for him. He's stubborn and ungrateful, but after all, that's a typical male for you, no matter what the species. She did all that for him, but now he's gone, vanished. It wasn't fair. She had Dean again, she marked him again, he was hers again. Everything was as it should have been.

And now it's not.

Lillith's legs and arms lengthen until she's a full head taller than the tallest man in the ground. That sleek white satin dress of hers is in tatters now, stretched and torn, hanging over the tops of her knees. Her white satin pumps are sliced to ribbons by the long curved claws on her feet. She spreads her black wings behind her and blots out the false night sky above.

The humans farthest away from Lillith finally make the decision to run.

"Don't leave yet," Lillith purrs to herself. "That's soo rude." She sends out the thought and fifty feet away the air shimmers slightly, then turns hard as concrete. The ones up front face plant hard into the barrier; the rest of the humans back up behind them, like a river flowing against a dam.

Lillith smirks as she sees that tall red-headed news bitch and her flunky with the camera back pedal away from her. That's fine. She'll save them for last. She needs them right now, needs them to show the world that she is not to be trifled with. She eyes another human, an older, white haired male wearing an incredibly loud Hawaiian shirt and ridiculous khaki shorts. The man's brown eyes grow glassy with terror as he realizes he's next.

Lillith's claws grow long and reddish black as she imagines ripping into him. She's ready to spring on him, then she glances down at Smartphone Girl.

Something is different.

Something is wrong.

Lillith stops dead in her tracks, ignores Hawaiian Shirt and the crowd as they back away from her.

There should be a reaper here. Reapers reap, after all. The human's soul should be standing outside her twisted body, but it's not.

Lillith drops into a crouch next to the carcass. She grunts and cocks her head to one side as she studies the meat. She can hear the soul screaming, a high pitched wail that rises and falls.

This soul is trapped inside the flesh. The ancient goddess sees the startled look in the female's eyes, the way the body jitters as its trapped essence struggles to be released.

The sight of that misery makes Lillith smile, wide and terrible. No reapers? Good.

She tilts her nose upwards, and her nostrils flare wide open as she scents the air. Sour, prickly human smell. Old meat all around her, older than she's used to. Adult flesh is tougher, more polluted than tender infants.

Ah well. She's lost her appetite, but that doesn't mean she can't amuse herself. So many breakables around, after all.

Maybe if she makes this meat scream loud enough, Dean will hear.

Maybe he'll come back.

* * *

The emotion is odd, unfamiliar. Abaddon cannot put a name to it, but he knows he doesn't like this one. He remembers this feeling from so very long ago, but he likes the newer ones, the red hot rageful ones that fill him with dark glee. They're all related to violence and screams and the rending of flesh, the spilling of blood.

Abaddon stares up at the cracked ceiling above his monstrous pale head. He could breach it, of course, but now, he doesn't want to.

The Dark Angel sits in the darkness. His broad, boney back is the expanse of a football field. He folds his spiky wings flat against his back, hugs his knees to his chest, and as he does so he realizes what this feeling is.

He doesn't like it, thought he'd had no further use for the damned thing. He'd felt it eons ago, when he was first hurled into the Pit.

The emotion is sadness.

Abaddon huffs out a breath, a forlorn, resigned sound that shakes and rattles the earth and concrete around him. The gas lines underneath the street around Treasure Island loosen just a little more.

He hears the shrieks of the humans overhead. There was a time when such sounds would have thrilled him to no end, but not now. His favorite toy, his little brother in Death, that Gaelen, that Dean boy, is no longer in play. He's gone.

Thousands of dead sewer rats and millions of maggots shower the rocky floor of the Pit as Abaddon's long, boney black feathers droop. Abaddon doesn't notice.

He has no reason to go up anymore.

No reason at all now.

* * *

On the hillside outside Las Vegas the goddess Kali rises to her feet, closes her eyes and sways from side to side in time to the anguished screams from Treasure Island. No human souls will be reaped this day, but there will still be plenty of human suffering.

It's different, but she decides she likes it just fine.

* * *

The Imperial Palace has never been invaded before. Protective sigils embedded in the glass and the walls have always ensured that the Palace is a safe haven. That was true, until today.

Ao-Kuang, the manager and owner of the place, is also known as the mightiest and the highest of the Four Ocean Dragons. The idea of mystically creating and then managing a hotel casino on the Las Vegas Strip always amused him. He loves his classic car collection, and the fact his guardian dragons are openly displayed right out in plain sight gives him a chuckle. When he manages the place he always manifests himself in the form of a large, cheerful bald human male. He was the one who saw and spoke to the Winchesters, the Campbells, Caleb and Pastor Jim when they walked into the place with Tessa, the reaper.

Ao-Kuang's rather fond of Tessa. Always has been.

Today is the first time the Palace has been breached, by all things, by white doves sent from Heaven, not Hell.

The first dove alights on the ledge of an unoccupied corner suite on the north side, 19th floor. The dove presses against the glass, and it bursts into flames, leaving a greasy smear of blackened feathers and ash. The glass melts, and as it does, a small edge of the protective sigil disappears.

It's a slight touch, not enough to alarm the sentry dragons on each floor of the hotel.

Another dove alights onto the glass, and then another, with the same result.

The hole is small, only about the size of a dinner plate, but it's big enough. The smoke demons curve into the air. They wait until twenty or so white doves glide in through the opening.

Nothing happens.

The first smoke demon cautiously slides into the breach. The others hesitate. It could be a trick, after all. They're still not entirely comfortable with the idea of working with Heaven.

Still nothing happens.

One demon after another follows the others in. Soon the air inside the suite is black as the demons twist and turn against each other.

_Soon,_ they whisper to themselves. _Soon._

The white doves peel off and disappear into the walls in a silent flutter of white feathers.

14 floors below, John Winchester feels the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up as he cradles Mary in his arms. It feels like someone has walked across his grave, but John knows that's crazy. Been there, done that.

He doesn't realize why he feels that way until later.

* * *

Samirah rears up, and the sunlight around her deepens and brightens. The wind picks up as the elements welcome back their wayward daughter.

She shakes her head from side to side. There's a faint echo of something still in there, a bad memory, and she can't get rid of it. Something white. It buzzed inside her. It held her down.

Not any more.

She rears again, balancing perfectly on her hind legs. Samirah's black coat darkens even more, turns so black even light can't escape.

When she drops down on all fours again Samirah paws at the sand with her right foreleg, then lowers her head, mock charges at the surf as it comes in again. Her eyes glow penny bright as she dances sideways on the surface of the water, in time to a melody only she can hear: the slow, steady turn of the earth underneath her hooves, the rush of the clouds through the sky above.

There was something wrong before, but she can't remember exactly what.

She doesn't like this feeling. There's only one thing she can do.

Samirah runs.

She charges down the beach, ears pricked, her tail streaming proudly behind her. She moves even faster, leading with her right. Samirah revels in the movement and strength in her body, and the pleasure she takes overrides everything else. She never turns around, doesn't see Dean lying crumpled on the sand a few feet away. There's a reason she never senses him; spiritually Samirah's alone on the beach. The color has washed out of Dean; he's just as white as the sand now.

All Samirah knows now is how she feels. She revels in the power in her muscles, the spring in her step.

This …feels…so…damn…GOOD!

She knows somehow that she very nearly lost everything, and that makes her restless, eager. She's been held back too long. She's just as surefooted as she ever was. She finds the veiled pathways and the hidden roads as she weaves and dodges from somewhen to somewhere. The ocean underneath her feet shifts to an ocean of white sand underneath a blazing sun somewhere.

The black horse changes leads, from her right to her left. The ocean of white sand fades into grassland, a sea of green grass stretching from horizon to horizon. The sky overhead has a pinkish gold tint to it, and there are two suns overhead, instead of one.

Samirah runs full out, and the ground shakes.

* * *

_I like meat that screams_, the demon Beelzebub thinks to himself.

The humans inside this shiny metal thing aren't going anywhere. The last time one tried to leave Beelzebub reached down, twisted the head off, then popped it into his mouth like a peanut.

The rest of the meat settled down then, huddling down on the seats, whimpering and gobbling in terror.

Beelzebub crouches on the roof of the bus and his mouth fills with jagged bone teeth as he scents the captive banquet beneath him. He can smell old meat, young meat, dark meat, white meat. It's all the same to him. Beelzebub isn't picky. Never has been. Not like that bitch Lillith. She likes 'em young and tender.

Beelzebub doesn't care. The dinner bell's been rung, and he plans to eat his fill this day. Slobber oozes out of his mouth in thick oily goblets. It blisters the metal at his feet as it hits.

A stirring in the air rustles the quill like spines on his back. For a moment he thinks one of his sister mates has followed him topside. The demon of gluttony bares his teeth. After all, he told the worthless bitches to wait their turn.

The air darkens and thickens, and less than a second later a funnel cloud of midnight black swirls downward. Lightning forks down from above, bright enough to make Beelzebub shield all three of his eyes. His vision clears soon enough.

Beelzebub sneers. An Apocahorse. A riderless one, at that.

The horse stares at him as she paws at the ground.

Worthless bag of bones. She's not going to do anything.

The wind picks up. The black horse rears up angrily, and thunder booms overhead in response.

In that moment Beelzebub knows that he's made a terrible mistake.

* * *

Cecelie Kendall cowers in the doorway of the Starbucks nearby. She's never felt terror like this before. She wants to run away, far away, hide somewhere in the deepest hole there is, but she doesn't run. On one level Cecelie knows there's no where to hide. Not from this.

She has enough presence of mind to aim her camera phone at the bus, the demon, and the horse.

_Bet the folks on Metro Bus 70 never imagined this, _she thinks. Her hand shakes a little, but all she can think of is getting this footage on line.

The monster on the roof hisses, and the black horse moves so fast it's a blur. Cecelie somehow manages to follow the motion, as the horse and the thing collide on top of the bus.

The whatsis hits the street on its back, and the look on the thing's ugly face as the black horse stomps it into black ashes can best be described as total, complete surprise.

* * *

An eyeblink later Samirah runs along the Mississippi River, on the grounds past the Gateway Arch in Saint Louis. She shifts into yet another gear; grey concrete changes into red desert sand as she leaves Missouri far behind. She can sense the change in the planet.

Parts of the Atlantic Ocean are frozen solid for miles, encased in a thick sheet of bright white ice.

The water at Venice Beach, California has turned to blood.

Live frogs rain down on Houston, Texas.

Samirah re-enters this reality somewhere in the Cascade Range in Oregon. She splashes through the water on the shore of Mirror Lake. Mount Hood rises majestically before her.

Her eyes flare brightly as she stares up at the mountain. She's not alone here.

_Pigeons,_ Samirah rumbles.

Several hundred angels gather around an open vent on the south face, near Crater Rock.

She can sense their intentions. Of all the volcanos in the Range, Mount Hood is the one most likely to erupt. It's clear the angels want to help it along. They whisper and murmur amongst themselves as they work, too arrogant to keep watch. After all, who's going to stop them? Once they tease Mount Hood into erupting, the angels plan on provoking each volcano in the Pacific Ring of Fire.

After all, the Apocalypse needs all the fireworks it can get.

Samirah's right in the middle of them before they can even react. She buck jumps, lashes out with her hooves and her teeth, rearing, twisting and bucking. The angels scatter, soot dark feathers and bright celestial light pinwheeling into the air all around her.

The wide-eyed looks of shock on their faces is priceless.

Not long after a PBS camera crew films her on the Serengetti Plain. Thousands of zebra and wildebeest scramble to get out of her way, but it's the pride of lions lounging nearby that Samirah wants to have fun with.

She goes after the largest one, the pride male, and he very clearly doesn't want anything to do with her. They all run away from her. The male lion lunges to his feet, turns and runs full out as Samirah makes a run at him. The lionesses scatter.

Samirah lowers her head, stretches her neck out and flattens her ears against her head as she snakes him. She even nips at the tufted end of his tail.

This is fun.

The lion jigs left, and Samirah follows. He can't shake her, and she won't stop.

_Don't be mad at me,_ Gaelen whispers in her memory.

Samirah slows down.

_I'm making this up as I go along._

Samirah finally stops running.

She stands still as a statue in the middle of the plain, her tail raised, her ears twitching back and forth.

The lion glances backwards at her, even as he runs like hell to get away. Leo can't believe his good luck, and Samirah doesn't notice.

She doesn't notice the hyenas and the jackals as they back away from her. She certainly doesn't pay the film crew and their dusty brown Land Rover any attention.

Her head's clear now. Clear as a bell.

Samirah remembers.

She's missing something.

Missing _someone_.

Samirah wheels around and runs back.

* * *

_Gaelen?_

No answer.

He's too still, too quiet, as pale as the white sand underneath his body. Samirah shakes her head back and forth angrily. _Gaelen? Wake up!_

Nothing.

Samirah rumbles angrily. She doesn't like this. Doesn't like _any_ of this. Her lips skin back from her teeth; she wants to savage Lillith's white darkness, wants to strike out with her hooves and her teeth, but she knows she can't.

It's inside Dean.

_Gaelen?_ She moves in closer.

The fingers of Dean's left hand twitches.

Samirah eases forwards cautiously. She lowers her head, pushes her nose towards Dean's face. She can smell the whiteness in him. Her nostrils flare wide at the hated scent. It smells like lavender, sulfur, and wet coppery blood.

It smells like Gaelen too.

Wisps of white drift up from his skin into the open air. Slender tendrils of whiteness twist and turn in the air towards her like vines seeking sunlight.

Dean opens his eyes.

He doesn't have any pupils now. His eye color is no longer moss green, but an awful greenish white color, bright and shiny, horrible in its blankness, but aware of his surroundings all the same.

He sees her.

The look in Gaelen's eyes freezes Samirah where she stands. He's never looked at her like that before: wild, unfocused, yet somehow angry and panicked at the same time.

"…don't…" Dean gasps hoarsely. ""GET AWAY FROM ME-DON'T TOUCH ME-"

* * *

Yeah, I know, an evil cliffie. You should know me by now, right? Next chapter will be posted next Monday. Oh come on, don't roll your eyes. You already got two chapters this week.


	57. Chapter 57

_**A/N: **_It's been a while, I know. Thanks to everyone for their patience. _Black Horse and the Cherry Tree_ is now complete. The remaining chapters will be posted twice a week, starting next week.

_**Soundtrack for this chapter:**_ "Letters from the Sky" by Civil Twilight.

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

* * *

_**Chapter 57**_

Gabriel fidgets as he settles back against his deck chair. He's changed into more comfortable clothes: sandals, khaki shorts and a wild looking Hawaiian shirt with colors so loud a blind person could see them. Gabriel absent-mindedly rubs his hands over his knees. The world could end any moment and all he can think of is how pale and knobby his knees look.

The archangel feels uneasy in his skin. Crunchy. That says it all. He hasn't felt this way in centuries, even when he was a newborn archangel. Even though he's a Child of Heaven, he's still too dumbfounded by what he sees around him.

The sky above is clear blue, except for one massive white cloud bank that keeps pace with the cruise ship. As effects go, it's simple and extremely impressive. The sound is crystal clear.

People line the rail of the ship on both sides, on all decks. There's no pushing or shoving. The mass of humanity is surprisingly considerate and cordial towards each other. They stand quietly, like worshipers in church, as they watch the images in the clouds.

It's hard to watch, but they can't turn away.

Sam Winchester kneels on the ground somewhere. The chains around his neck, chest and wrists bite cruelly into his skin. He looks dazed and confused. Broken.

A smiling man wearing a tan trenchcoat holds the ends of the chains. Castiel smiles as he kicks the boy again and again. The sound of Sam's ribs breaking is a bright, brittle sound.

Gabriel's stomach turns, a slow greasy flipflop. It's a hard thing to watch, but he can't look away. The humans can't, either.

The scene shifts.

Pestilence kneels frozen among the disease riddled remains of his brethren. Human and equine bodies, little more than tattered skin stretched tight over brittle yellow bone lie scattered all over the landscape. Flies merrily touch down and then take flight again.

Pestilence tenderly holds the mummified hand of Famine, his dear sister.

The big man's eyes are blank and staring.

"I killed them," he murmurs to himself. "I killed them all…"

Another scene change.

"Momma….please…nooo…" The knife slashes deep into Famine's chest and belly. Her mother straddles her on the dining table, smiling warmly as she uses the blade on her daughter. The corpses of the other Horsemen sit stiffly in the chairs around the table. Papa's there too, with this wide bony smile on his face, and Famine can't understand why her mother is mad at her.

The images fade out, then back in again.

War laughs, fierce and defiant, as he's beaten by a mob of entranced humans. He's on his knees now, bruised, bloodied but unbound, his arms pulled behind his broad black.

Glasya-Labolas, a President of Hell, master at inciting humans to pure bloody murder and commander of 36 legions of demons down in hell, sits nearby on his haunches, his soft puppy face relaxed and smiling. He looks for all the world like a cuddly little Golden Retriever with the wings of an eagle.

The image fades out, and another takes its place.

Pure white sand. Blue skies overhead. Gabriel sees a man lying there. His skin, hair and clothes are just as pale as the pure white sand underneath him.

"…g-get away from me…don't come near me," Dean Winchester gasps. He claws at the sand with his left hand; his right hand is a stump.

The great black mare backs away from him, startled, her copper bright eyes wide eyed, ears twitching.

Gabriel's wings twitch in response. He wants to unfurl them, wants to leap skyward, to fly away from here and never come back. Just like he did before.

The only problem is, this time there's no safe place to run to.

The Supreme Being, the Creator, God Herself, occupies the deck chair next to her wayward son. She chuckles as she picks the tiny yellow paper umbrella out of her drink, holds the toothpick between her fingers and twirls it. That silly little thing amuses her. God laughs.

She looks very relaxed now. Being on vacation suits her. Her naturally curly hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail. She wears a white linen halter top and matching pants.

"Aren't you going to help them?" There was a time when he wouldn't have asked so many questions, when he would have accepted whatever She wanted him to accept.

That became harder as time went on. There came a time when he couldn't pretend anymore, as much as he loved Her and his brothers and sisters. He's lived tricky for centuries, but now Gabriel just doesn't see the point.

If she smites him now, so be it.

"Help them?" God shrugs. "No." She sips daintily at her fruit cocktail. There's no heat in her answer. The sky overhead remains calm, bright and clear.

_I dared question Her and I'm still alive,_ Gabriel thinks to himself. _Damn._

"Of course you're still alive, silly boy," God says merrily. "Why _wouldn't _you be?" She turns towards him and frowns a little. "And when did you get such a potty mouth?"

Gabriel fully expects a gigantic lightning bolt to fork down on top of him. He flinches. "I'm sorry."

"Here, try this." A tall glass of fruit juice topped by a purple paper umbrella and an orange slice materializes in Gabriel's right hand.

"It's better for you than all that junk food you've been eating."

"I thought you were mad at me," Gabriel mumbles, then takes a long sip. Orange juice and pineapple, mango. The flavors explode inside his taste buds in a good way.

God pulls her sunglasses down to the end of her nose. "Helping Dean and the Horsemen would be cheating, kiddo. Free will, remember? What will be, will be."

She gestures at the cloudbank. "I've made other arrangements so that humanity can truly see what's going on out there." She sighs. "Satellites. Weathercams. Traffic cameras. I do love those wonderful toys humans have come up with!"

Gabriel swallows thickly. None of this is what he wanted to hear. "So what are you going to do if all this goes wrong? Start over?"

The look on Her face is so open and earnest it sends a chill down Gabriel's spine. God shakes her head slowly. "I don't know. I honestly don't know."

* * *

Things haven't changed much down in the lowlands of hell.

Images of torment and pure angst swirl in the dark ice around her. The Horsemen are trapped inside their heads, courtesy of the leeches which bind them. Ordinarily she could watch for hours on end, but Circe reluctantly pulls herself away from it.

The guests of honor are missing, and she has to find them.

Circe's eyes roll white as she tilts her head back, raises her arms towards the rooftop of hell. Her massive, scaly hellhounds sit obediently on the shore of the frozen lake all around her. The spell she chants into the blood red mist around her roils with each spoken syllable.

_Levitas, tempestas, furor… fortis equus homem forte… intrepidi et constants _

Her eyes roll back into her head. Her pupils turn blank, sightless, casting beams of icy white light into the red darkness.

… _praesent nulla consequat… dolor a ante consectetur iaculis…_

She sees a highway on the outskirts of the city. Humans walking on foot. Stupid creatures.

Circe senses echoes. Copper bright anger that flares red hot, then subsides into sadness. Regret.

But the Horseman is gone. And so is his horse.

Circe casts her spell even wider, and continues on.

* * *

"…GET…GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME-"

Samirah ducks down just as long glowing vines of whiteness surge out of Dean's skin and slash the air in her direction. One tendril slices the air above the tip of her right ear; she pivots and dodges the rest, legs pumping, thick sprays of sand flying up into the air all around her.

She stops twenty feet away, her entire body quivering, eyes wide with shock, nostrils flaring, as she turns to face the one being in Creation who means everything to her.

Dean shudders. His features shift from tormented to strangely blank, then his face fills with a wild beauty that makes Samirah take a few hesitant steps forward, despite herself. The alabaster paleness of his skin and hair, the new stark white of his clothes suits him, just as much as spiky dark blond hair, freckles and midnight black leather and cloth ever did.

The white halo surrounding him pauses in mid-air, then flows backwards as it sinks once more underneath Dean's pale skin and clothes.

"…'m sorry," Dean whispers hoarsely. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Her ears twitch at the sound of his voice. He sounds as weak as he looks, and Samirah feels an unaccustomed pang of something she can't identify, an emotion she's heard about in others but never experienced before herself.

Guilt.

Dean's right leg is shattered. She can sense it. He's hurt. Because of her. He took her injury into himself, but he hasn't released it.

None of this feels right. Samirah wants to run from this feeling, needs to move, so she tosses her head and paces back and forth restlessly in the sand.

"'m okay now. I am."

Samirah lowers her head and eyes her rider intently.

Dean raises himself up on his elbows. The fingers of his left hand shake slightly as he reaches out to her. "Samirah? Come on now. We gotta go."

The black horse shakes her head from side to side as she half rears and strikes at the sand with both forelegs. Samirah snorts steam and fire. "How stupid do you think I am?"

Dean stares at her and the beautiful mask slips, his faded eyes become bright with undisguised hatred, pale green sheened over with icy white. "Bitch."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Lillith's handprint on Dean's throat darkens, and the whiteness comes surging out again. It fills the air around him.

Dean lowers his head and his shoulders shake silently.

Samirah realizes a second later that he's laughing. It's Dean's whiskey smooth growl, all right, but it's layered underneath another voice that's lighter, almost female, definitely not human.

He raises his head again and smirks at her. "Well. You're not as dumb as you look, are you, sweetheart? Why don't you just run along then, huh? Oh. Wait. _You won't._ I've got your rider."

Samirah rumbles angrily.

"You're not leaving him, are you, nag? And I'm not letting him go. Not this time."

Dean's eyes roll white as his head rocks back. The whiteness around his body thickens as it coils around his body. He's gently lifted up, then turned over onto his back.

The whiteness changes into wavy shoulder length platinum blonde hair, flowing white satin, peach perfect skin and blue eyes framed by long dark lashes, set in an icily perfect face.

_Lillith_, Samirah rumbles angrily.

* * *

_Levitas, tempestas, furor… fortis equus homem forte… intrepidi et constants … _

The scene shifts to a building this time. Hunters with guns stand guard at every window inside, along with an assortment of frightened, unarmed humans.

In the back the shredded remains of various demons lie scattered on the ground.

Well.

Bastet crouches on this metal thing in the back, and the cat goddess pauses as she sniffs the air alertly. Bastet hisses angrily.

_Damn,_ Circe thinks to herself. _That Dean boy, that Gaelen…he was here, but not anymore. _

Still, she senses the connection. These people must have meant something to him, they must matter to him, else he wouldn't have been here in the first place. That's good to know.

Circe withdraws, and casts her spell even wider.

* * *

Bobby Singer leans against the kitchen sink. He lowers his rifle as he stares outside. The stench of sulfur is in the air. The parking lot is littered with all manner of fugly and carcasses, but so far no one inside the Roadhouse has fired a shot.

Bastet sits crouched on the back dumpster. The cat goddess stares alertly at the tall grass beyond the lot. Her ears twitch, as does her long, sleek tail.

"Think it's over?" Bobby murmurs.

Ellen nods at the feline. "Boo Boo doesn't seem to think so."

Bobby sighs ruefully. "I was afraid you were gonna say that."

* * *

Dean stares dazedly at the woman lying on top of him. He's so damn cold, and she's even colder.

He should know her name. He did at one time.

Dean clenches his jaws together to stop his teeth from chattering. Frozen cold wraps around his body like a dense, heavy blanket, and underneath it all a red hot throb of pain pulses slowly, in time with the rawness in his throat. He thinks of shattered bone like glass and he can't remember why or where.

The blonde woman runs her fingers slowly down his jawline. "Dean, sweetheart, you look so good like this," she purrs. "I don't know how you do it."

Dean stares up at that mercilessly perfect face, and for just a moment he sees dark blue leathery skin underneath that perfect complexion.

He remembers black satin sheets. His skin tingles with the memory of her body pressed tightly against his, her arms twined around his body as she whispered in his ear, "Take me, Dean. Seal the deal…"

"L-Lillith," Dean croaks out loud.

The bitch smiles. "That's my boy. My sweet, sweet boy." She leans down and kisses the tip of his nose.

"No…you're not…" Dean swallows hard. He shakes his head weakly from side to side. "C-can't be…you're not all here…"

"Knew you'd figure it out. Beauty and brains, Deano. That's what we love about you," the thing pouts prettily. "I'm a chip off the old block. Lillith puts a little bit of herself in every mark when she claims her possessions. Like you. You should feel flattered, big boy. She put in fifty times the dose for you this time. That's why your girl was affected." The double looks at Samirah and laughs as the black horse angrily rumbles at her.

"That's why you won't be able to shake me off so easily this time. You passed some of me off to that Old Death, but don't worry, boychick, there's more than enough to go around."

Lillith's proxy looks around at the beach and the ocean and smiles sweetly. "You and your girl are real movers and shakers, Dean. I mean, to be able to travel like this, between worlds? Very impressive."

She puts her hand palm down on his chest, fingers spread, directly over his heart. He knows she's listening to his slow, labored heartbeat through her skin.

"Once your nag rejoins the party, we can all go back. Lillith will be really be glad to see you again. No hard feelings. You just needed to be reminded of your place, that's all."

"F-fu-fuck-k…y-you…"

"Oh, baby," the double coos, "You're sooo sweet. I'd love to. Maybe later. In the meantime? I can wait, sport. I have all the time in the world. But I don't think _you_ do."

She leans forward and kisses the tip of Dean's nose. He wrinkles his nose slightly at the stench of sulfur on her breath. "There's no telling what nastiness is happening back there in Sin City."

Lillith's doppelganger primly folds both arms over Dean's chest, puts her chin down on the backs of her hands and pouts prettily. "Haven't heard from Sam lately, have you? Rika? Chale? Tiesen? They don't have to die, y'know. Lillith still wants a full set of Horsemen."

Dean glares at her.

"No? Okay."

Something unseen and ice cold pushes its way into the space between his eyes.

_It's just you and me inside that hard head of yours, kiddo. _Her thought voice slithers around inside Dean's skull like a snake coiling around a warm flat rock. _I've blocked your little pony._

"Get….get out of my head, bitch-" Dean wants to snarl at her. He tries to, but his throat closes up and the only sound he can make is a muffled groan.

There's just the slow weak flutter of his heart, the raspy inhale and exhale of his paper thin lungs. Everything else inside him is rimmed in white ice. The Spear of Destiny is a solid weight in the hidden space at his back, but that's useless to him now. He can't fill his left hand with it. He can't feel his arms anyway.

_Don't strain yourself, Dean. I need to reach out and touch Black Beauty here, and then we'll all be on our way. A woman's work is never done. _

Something slithers far beneath the white sand. Dean can see it, a long, whip-thin tendril of white darkness snaking its way slowly underneath the sand in Samirah's direction.

In his mind's eye he sees the tip of the creeper come out of the sand, sees it snake around one of Samirah's pasterns. Just a simple, light touch. That's all it would take. Samirah's penny bright eyes would glaze over and her fine black coat would dull to dark grey, just like it did before.

The vibrations from Samirah's hooves as she paces back and forth in the sand is a constant rhythm. She won't leave him. Not this time.

He could lose himself in the sound of her hoofbeats, and that wouldn't be so bad, would it? He could close his eyes, and wait. They'd all be together again, wouldn't they?

Dean stares up at Lillith's double, and the emotion he feels doesn't show on his face. He looks drowsy, his eyes half-lidded. Deep down inside, he feels anger. Rage. Rage at this bitch.

Rage at himself for putting himself in this position in the first place.

He's put Samirah at risk.

He's put everyone he loves at risk.

His rage is a small spark, right next to his heart. It flickers as if he's somewhere cold and dark, and the flame is from the last match he has left.

Dean has a memory of a place like that.

One of his first hunts by himself. Dad flipped the keys of the Impala to him, gave him the details of the job and sent him on his way. Dean sees himself kneeling on the cold hard floor of this cave he managed to find. The pile of twigs and dried grass he gathered caught fire easily enough, but every other heartbeat the wind pushed into the enclosed space, howling like a live, vicious thing.

_You think you're safe in here, boy? Think again. _

He had to protect the fire, couldn't afford to let it go out, so he crouched there, with his back to the cave entrance, the top of his head barely grazing the ceiling.

The fugly he hunted that day was a talemèk, bigger, meaner, nastier than he'd thought it would be. It flitted through the trees, ghost-like one minute, solid enough to slam him into a tree trunk the next.

The trick was to get close enough when it went solid.

Silver ammo worked just fine. The second step was a little harder.

It shrieked and dissolved into wisps of thin dead air as he thundered Latin at it. The job was done, and all he had to do then was survive the cold and hike out in the morning.

Maybe it recognized him (Horseman!), maybe it knew even then what he really was, even when he didn't.

Now that Dean really thinks about it, he's sure of that.

The fug looked surprised when it first laid eyes on him.

He chalked that reaction up to general weirdness. Just a typical day at the office. It didn't matter. What did matter was that Dad thought Dean could hunt by himself, so it wouldn't do to get himself killed first time out.

No sir, that wouldn't do at all.

Dean holds onto the image. He swears he can feel the cold hard ground pressing against the knees of his blue jeans, even imagines he feels the slight flickering heat on his palms and his fingertips, back in the good old days, when he had two good hands. The wind whips around his face viciously, never mind that the hooded parka he bought with the credit cards was heavy and well insulated.

In his mind's eye he shields the shifting flame with both hands.

He wills the fire inside himself to grow.

Dean closes his eyes.

* * *

Lillith's mirror image frowns. "That is _so_ rude. You don't want to look at me? You're giving me a complex, boyo."

Dean opens his eyes.

Huh. She leans forward to get a closer look, until they're nose to nose.

The spark in his eyes is small at first. A copper pinpoint, submerged underneath pale green ice. It flickers weakly.

And then it goes out entirely.

Lillith's stand-in narrows her eyes. She can't feel Dean's heartbeat. She presses down on his chest even harder, then jabs at his eyes with her long dark red fingernails, brushing her fingertips against those impossibly long lashes of his.

He doesn't even blink.

She feels a sense of wrongness then, despite the fact that she has him in hand. He's helpless and the black horse will be too, soon, because the tendril is a few feet away from her, underneath the sand.

A tiny copper spark flares weakly in the center of Dean's pupils, and the stupid Lillith thing leans in for an even closer look.

* * *

_Samirah?_

The black horse nickers. She pricks her ears alertly, as her eyes glow bright copper in response.

This isn't a trick. It's not false hope.

That familiar presence sweeps over her: the way the skin around his eyes crinkles whenever he looks at her, the press of his strong hand against the curve of her neck, his solid weight in the saddle, always in tune with her motion, always perfectly balanced.

He shines like a beacon, warm and bright. Wide open skies above, and the open road ahead. Spiral pathways and wild worlds, everywhere they've already been, everywhere they will go.

Together. _Always_ together.

It's _him_. It's _Gaelen_. It's _Dean_.

_Run, _he whispers, and Samirahresponds without hesitation, as smoothly, as surely as she always does. She wheels around towards the surf, and within a few strides she's fully extended, racing easily over the surface of the water, out to open sea.

The ocean rolls and rises up around her.

Samirah runs and she doesn't look back.

She knows without looking that the beach behind her is a churning maelstrom of white lightning and copper light that blots out the noonday sun. A monstrous seventy foot wave builds behind her. She surges ahead of the wave radiating outward from the beach. She switches leads, reaches out with her left instead of her right. The black horse runs with her neck stretched out, her ears turned backwards, towards the shore. She listens to the thunderous roar from the beach behind her.

She runs because _he_ told her to, but she doesn't go as far as she did before.

She kicks up silvery sprays of sea water as her hooves deftly skim over the surface. Droplets of water sparkle in the air around her, bright diamonds strewn over the midnight blackness of her coat.

Thick clouds of white steam boil up into the atmosphere. The reflected heat would be enough to liquefy steel. Samirah doesn't notice.

She creates a pressure wave of her own. The waves flatten out in her wake, and she shifts into another gear, stretching out in full stride, a streak of black lightning and rainbow color surging towards the far horizon. Samirah runs until the ocean waves finally flatten out to a gentle rocking motion, and the sky over the beach is painted in shades of pale blue sky and faded copper. Her ears twitch forward, then back.

It's quiet now. There's only the sound of the rolling waves around her.

It's done. It's over.

Samirah turns and runs back, to the beach.

* * *

_Homem forte. Fortis equus,_ Circe murmurs softly into the blood red air.

Nothing.

_Intrepidi et levitas constants…_

For the first time in her eternal life the witch feels the cold touch of fear.

Creation is boundless. Endless. So many places that the Horseman and his mount could be. Leaving Sin City in the midst of the breaking of the seal was something no one could have accounted for.

_Vestibulum egestas quam furor…_

Circe shudders from head to toe. A massive wave of energy from somewhen raises gooseflesh on her skin, red, raised, and painful. She staggers backwards, flinging her arms over her eyes.

The scrying spell is forgotten. Circe's naked skin steams, thin streamers of heat rising into the air behind her. She curses herself briefly for leaving herself wide open. The inside of her head is filled with images of copper fire, pale green ice, and roiling ocean waves.

_Hades, what is this?_

Circe immediately chants a shielding spell in the old tongue.

_Eu gae nulla vite congue sem arcu mortepas llicit laoreet nisi … Curabitur volutpat, enim tortor ullamcorper risus…_

Her skin cools, as does her head.

Better now. _Much _better.

Circe cautiously turns her senses in the direction of the disturbance. It's on a different pathway, one step over from reality, close yet still so far away.

She smells salt water first. Then her vision sharpens, turning her eyes turn pure white. This is unlike any beach she's ever seen before. The sand has fused into thick overlapping sheets of pale green glass. The landscape for miles around has been flattened, except for a tall pillar of glass thirty feet from the surf line.

The black horse is there, but she's not alone.

There's something…_someone_ imbedded inside the pillar. It's a male figure. The features are exquisite pale marble: spiky hair, wide expressive eyes, broad shoulders. Michelangelo could have sculpted such a piece, this fly caught in green glass instead of amber, but Circe knows better.

Dean Winchester stands motionless, unmoving in his tomb of green glass.

Circe laughs. _Ah. I've found them…_

Next post Monday.


	58. Chapter 58

**CHAPTER 58**

**A/N: **A chick flick moment between a Horseman and his horse. And then Circe shows up with an offer they dare not refuse. Typical Winchester luck.

Soundtrack for this chapter: "Rock and A Hard Place" by the Rolling Stones.

* * *

_Gaelen?_ Samirah calls out softly._ I'm back. I'm here._

She tilts her finely chiseled head slightly to one side, ears pricked. Waiting. Listening.

Her call is answered only by the soft whisper of the surf nearby.

Back in the day, way way back in the day, she never had to call for him. There was no need. Before they always knew exactly where each other was, until the damn yellow-eyed demon pursued them, and Gaelen left to draw the bastard away, to keep her and the rest of the Horsemen safe.

Samirah was alone then, and she hated it.

She searched for Gaelen. She called out for him.

He never answered, not until she saw him again, centuries later. He still had green eyes, but his name was Dean this time.

Samirah stands quietly on the transformed beach. Gaelen's here, encased in thick pale green glass, pale, unmoving, caught like an insect in amber. He looks at her, through her, eyes blank and staring, the fine thin scars around his right eye slightly darker than the rest of him.

Samirah's eyes blaze brighter, yet her mind touch is gentle, almost hesitant, just as Dean's was when he moved her from the highway to this place.

She's afraid to touch him, but she has to get him out of there.

The rippled surface of the pillar is lit from within by a burst of brilliant reddish gold light. Dean's body glows, then fades out.

He reappears sitting on the ground with his back against the glass column. His skin, clothes and hair are just as pale as ever, his gaze pale, vacant.

"I'm back," Samirah says out loud. "I'm here."

Still no answer.

She stretches her neck out, lips gently at the side of his face. He's cold. Cold as marble. Hard. Unyielding.

"Gaelen, wake up."

Nothing. Not even a blink of those ridiculously long lashes of his.

The black horse becomes even more agitated. She paces back and forth, ears pinned back, tail swishing angrily. The glass surface beneath her hooves melts.

"Gaelen, you have to wake up now. You have to."

He doesn't. His silence angers her. Samirah circles the pillar. She burns a perfect circle into the crystallized sand.

"Wake up."

She makes a complete circle again, and when she comes back around the other side she sees that nothing's changed. Samirah doesn't stop; she snorts furiously as she moves past. On the opposite side of the column she suddenly ducks her head down and kicks out with her hind legs.

"GAELEN, WAKE UP!"

The top half of the pillar shatters. The glass particles disperse into what looks like a swirling cloud of glowing orange fireflies.

Samirah races back around to the front. She skids to a halt in front of Dean, her entire body quivers, her long elegant legs tremble like a newborn foal's.

If this doesn't work, she's got nothing else. But she won't leave him. She won't-

Dean takes one long, shuddering breath that makes his chest and throat hitch.

He blinks. Slowly. And then he opens his eyes.

" 'm up, 'm up," he mutters groggily.

He sees her._ Really_ sees her this time.

His eye color deepens, from icy white to pale green, then moss green again, with just a glint of copper and gold in his pupils. His hair darkens, shading from white to sandy blond, and finally dark blond. His freckles return, rising up from underneath the icy whiteness of his skin. The paleness melts away, golden skin glazing his cheekbones once more.

Blackness washes over his clothing, slowly, inch by inch. His cassock turns midnight black again, as does his hooded greatcoat.

The skin around his eyes crinkles as he looks at her face and then her right foreleg. Dean blinks again, tiredly, as if the afternoon sunlight bothers him and he has to get used to it again.

_I'm still here, Dean, _the Lillith thing whispers faintly inside his head. _You melted me down, caged me inside your lovely bones, but I'll always be with you. _

It sounds very pleased with herself.

Samirah lowers her head, sniffs at his right leg. Her nostrils flare and then, just as quickly, she jerks backward with a snort of surprise. She stares at him with a hard, emotional glint in her eyes. "You're not healed."

"Uh…I'm fine."

"You're lying." Samirah tosses her head. "I can always tell." Usually she sounds smug whenever she says this; now she sounds worried. "You didn't kill the damn thing. You're holding it deep inside."

"I'm okay." He won't admit otherwise. His right leg is a cold, leaden weight. The sensation of broken bone fragments grating against one another sets his teeth on edge. He feels like screaming, but he won't.

"Liar." Samirah lowers her head again, snuffles gently at the side of Dean's face. He feels warm this time.

Dean raises his gloved left hand and gently strokes her cheek with his fingers.

Samirah nickers contentedly. They close their eyes and lean into each other, her jibbah pressed against his forehead.

_Thought I'd lost you…_

It never occurs to either one that they both had the same thought at the same time. For a moment there's only the soft hiss of the tide. It's a quiet moment, a chick flick moment that Dean will never admit to, and of course it doesn't last.

Samirah pulls back and tilts her head slightly. "Huh. Why is your face wet?"

"W-wet?" Dean looks startled. "Uh…it's sea water."

"Sea water?"

"Yeah, that's it." Dean quickly wipes his eyes dry.

"If you say so."

Horse and rider suddenly have the same purposeful look. It's time to go back to work.

Samirah's midnight black coat gleams with metallic blue lightning as she call forth her saddle and bridle. Samirah doesn't ask what now? She already knows. It's back to Sin City, time to retrieve their people and put things right, and God help anyone who tries to stop them.

Dean grunts as he raises himself up halfway. Hi s left leg works just fine; his right leg starts singing soprano, a high-pitched song of razor-sharp bone splinters and jagged pain. Pushing himself up onto his feet is hard enough, with only his good left hand.

To hell with that. They don't have time to waste.

The copper spark in his eyes blazes. Dean disappears.

Samirah stands patiently. She doesn't react, not even when he reappears in the saddle on her back. Dean puts his left foot into that stirrup easily enough, but he hisses under his breath as he carefully maneuvers his right boot into the right stirrup.

The black horse pretends not to notice.

"What about Lillith?" Samirah paws at the broken glass on the ground with her right foreleg.

Dean sighs as he picks up the reins. "I don't want you going anywhere near that bitch, not until after I gank her."

Samirah pins her ears back indignantly.

"Samirah? I mean it. I don't want you to get hurt again, you hear me?"

"_All right!_" the black horse snaps. "I heard you the _first_ time."

Samirah's mood changes like quicksilver. She dances in place, eager to get on the move. Dean holds the reins loosely as he turns his face up to the sun. For a moment he can't identify what he's feeling, and then it hits him: He feels at peace. Steady. Centered once again. Despite everything that's happened, everything that will happen. Samirah's whole and healthy again, and that's one helluva start.

Less than half a mile away inland the open air shimmers like liquid silver. It's a pathway, one of many. Samirah walks at first, then breaks smoothly into a trot.

Dean feels the hair at the back of his neck rise up, stiff and painful. Samirah stops dead in her tracks.

Something's…_coming_…

Something's…_here_…

The air around them darkens. The nightmare vision rises up all around them.

He hears a woman's laugh, light and cheerful. The transformed beach is now a great banquet hall filled with men wearing simple clothing. The feast set out on the huge wooden dining table is impressive, but no one eats. The trap has been sprung.

The men double over in pain as their arms and legs twist into new shapes. Bones crack and tendons stretch into new unnatural angles. They claw uselessly at their throats as they writhe on their hands and knees,.

Tanned human skin thickens into bristly pink skin. Faces swell and lengthen into pointed muzzles filled with sharp white teeth, large floppy ears and blunt snouts.

"...what's happening…what…" As their vocal chords thicken human words and cries of pain thicken into low pitched grunts, snarls and shrill squeals.

The human males are gone. The great hall is filled with all manner of beasts of the earth: pigs, dogs, and bears.

Dean rolls his eyes. If this is meant to frighten or intimidate, it has the opposite effect.

Samirah yawns. Dean looks relaxed, yet disinterested, as if he's seen this all before. He has.

The vision disappears just as quickly as it came. There's only the beach now, the frothing surf and pale green glass in place of the sand beach front.

"Am I boring you, Horseman?" the female voice purrs.

Dean nods. "Yeah. You are."

"Pity."

An orb of light, two feet in diameter, hovers in the air above their heads. Shadows of silver, dark red and bluish purple crawl across the surface, and what looks like a nose, half-lidded eyes and full lips emerges. Dean's suddenly reminded of the way faces can be seen in clouds, or on the surface of the moon on a clear night.

"Witch," Samirah rumbles. Lillith may be off limits to her, but this new intruder isn't.

She knows who this is. They both do.

"Circe," Dean growls.

The eyes open all the way, and the orb winks at him. "Clever boy."

* * *

_He's beautiful, this Death,_ Circe thinks. Resplendent in ebony black, undeniably male. He's easily the most handsome male she's ever laid eyes on. The images she's seen of him didn't do him justice; he's more breath-taking in person, a creature of singular beauty. Full lips, wide green eyes, and that patrician nose. Broad shouldered, slim hipped, he sits the saddle perfectly at ease.

For a moment Circe feels regret that she hadn't encountered him when he was a wanderer out in the ancient world. It would have been interesting, to say the least, to seduce him, and then unleash the beast within. It would have been a black stallion, she's sure of it, an animal just as fiery as the mare he rides. She regards the black horse fondly. The mare is splendid, fierce, proud, like her rider. They both would have been useful to her.

They still might be, in more ways than one.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I just came by to see how you were doing."

He looks skeptical. "You're kidding, right?"

"I'm boring you, am I? Well then, perhaps this will be more to your liking."

The colors of the orb fade out. The images that flicker across its surface are heartbreaking. Bones break, cold steel slashes deep inside flesh. Each Horseman is trapped inside his or her own private nightmare, and their horses lie on the ground encased in a cocoon of leeches.

Circe expects an explosion of anger from Death and his apocahorse. She braces herself for it.

Nothing happens. Incredibly enough, neither one reacts.

The great black mare stands quietly. The Horseman stares at Circe's orb, his mouth set in a hard, grim line. "And this is supposed to matter to us why?"

For a second Circe is taken aback at this non-reaction. They're both creatures of passion, so she would have expected them to act accordingly, especially at the sight of their fellows being tormented.

"They're your brothers and sister," she answers smoothly enough. "Your fellow Horsemen."

"Not any more. We've gone our separate ways."

They're so convincing with this casual, uncaring attitude. Circe could almost believe it.

_Almost. _

"Oh? If they mean so little to you, it won't matter if I stop their hearts, then." Sam's bruised and broken image appears in the orb. "I think I'll start with the one called Sam. He was your younger brother in your newest life, I think."

"Wait," the Horseman says.

She catches a subtle note of pleading in that one word, said without hesitation. She's called their bluff. There's a bit of a trickster in these two, and it makes her even more interested in acquiring them later on. It's been a while since she had a _real_ challenge.

The images blink out, and the orb once again has a shadowy face. "You left the party, Dean. You don't mind if I call you that, do you?"

He doesn't answer.

"You're going back to Sin City anyway, aren't you?" It's time for her to assert control in this conversation. "No more lies, Dean."

"Yes." His tone is flat and unemotional.

"Well then, consider this just an extra added incentive for you." The Horseman and his horse are quiet. She can feel their fear, not for themselves, but for their loved ones. Powerful, yet flawed. It's no wonder they broke tradition.

"We want what everyone wants, what's best for you. Play your role in this. Battle Lillith and Abaddon in the streets, youngling. Put on a grand show for all of Creation to see. If you do that, we'll let your family go."

Things are going well, but Circe knows that she's on the edge, perhaps a heartbeat away from eternity. She sees her death in their eyes.

She feels it, despite the protective filter of the orb and the distance between them, all that incalculable rage and power directed towards her, just waiting to be unleashed. Horse and rider shrewdly calculate where she is, how fast they can get to her.

And how slowly they can make her die.

"As fast as you are, you're not fast enough to keep me from killing your family. I can stop their hearts, drag their souls down to hell." Circe smiles, and so does the orb. "You know where I am. I know you do. If you come for me, I'll kill them. If you leave again, I'll kill them. All you have to do is such a simple thing, really. Play your role in this. Battle Lillith and Abaddon in the streets, youngling. Put on a grand show for all of Creation to see. If you do that, we'll let your family go. No strings attached."

"You really expect me to believe that?"

It's time to cut the connection. They'll return. She knows they will. There's not a doubt in her mind about that.

The orb fades out, and Circe's last words echo ghost-like in the bright, warm air: "Do you really think you have a choice?"

* * *

Next: Circe slips up. Dean and Samirah return to Vegas, and things go from bad to worse at the Imperial Palace and the Roadhouse. Will be updated on Saturday, February 3rd.


	59. Chapter 59

_**A/N: **_I have limited internet now, but I just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed this and other fics of mine. I will answer each and every one. Thanks again!

**_Soundtrack for this chapter:_ **The Horsemen sequence – "Sweet Dreams" The Eurhythmics; Dean and Samirah's sequence – Black in Black – AC/DC

* * *

_**CHAPTER 59**_

_I'm an abomination,_ Sam thinks as Castiel stomps on his hands. _I deserve this._

Sam's demon horns are curled tightly against his hair and his temples, like a ram's horns, so the next blow upside his head is just a glancing one, not very serious or damaging. He's already stopped the silly business of trying to protect himself. Time to take his punishment like a man.

Or whatever the hell he is.

There's only the snap of breaking bones, and that nasty taste in his mouth. His skin feels funny, too, oily and foul.

The boy sitting on the ground in front of him wasn't there before, when all this started. Sam's pretty sure he wasn't. Kid looks familiar. If Sam wasn't so distracted by the chain wrapped tightly around his neck, and the bright, quick snap of his bones breaking, maybe he could remember the youngster's name. Sooner or later.

Castiel laughs as he kicks Sam in the ribs again. Intense blue eyes fade to yellow, and back again to blue. Facial features shift and re-form. He's Castiel, then Azazel, then Castiel again.

Sam's having a hard time keeping track of which is which, and who was there first. Apparently he's the only one who can see the boy. The new kid doesn't move, just sits there staring at Sam sadly, so Sam tries to focus on him instead. It's hard.

Faded clothes. Second hand, from the look of it; even the boy's shoes are thrift shop specials. Sam recognizes that tan jacket. Another kick, another broken rib, and through the razor-sharp pain that bites into him Sam thinks, _Didn't I have one like that back in junior high? _

That shaggy brown hair looks awfully familiar.

_"Gettin' kinda shaggy there, Sasquatch!"_ Dean says cheerily in Sam's memory.

Sam groans at the sound of his brother's voice.

"He ditched me," Sam mumbles, lying there on his belly. "Dean left me."

The boy shakes his head. "No, he didn't. Dean didn't leave you. He never would."

For a moment Sam's mind is overwhelmed by images of beings with shadow wings, and living black smoke that coils in the air. He sees black eyes everywhere. His breath catches in his throat; the stench of sulfur takes his breath away. He's dying at Devil's Gate again, a tidal wave of hellfire that crawls up his body and reduces him to fine grey ash.

Sam sees horses out in the grasslands. They're white, grey, red and spotted. Snorting. Prancing.

He sees Dean, mounted on his great black horse.

Riding away from him. Leaving him.

"Sam," the boy says calmly. "We're trapped." He holds out his hand, palm up. Sam stares, fascinated, at the bug on the boy's hand. It's wide, flat and slick, a vile looking pearl grey. It writhes and wriggles as it turns on itself.

He knows _this_. He _knows_ the name of this critter. Sam struggles to remember, even as he takes several more jarring blows to the face and body. Then, finally….

_Leech. It's a leech._

Sam doesn't say the words out loud, but the boy smiles grimly and nods. He stands up and immediately grows taller, bigger. The hair's still shaggy, and there's still that sad look in those blue-green eyes, but he's grown now, a man, dressed in faded jeans and a red and plaid shirt one second, copper armor the next.

The shock of recognition flows over Sam as if he's been doused head to toe with ice-cold water.

_He's me_, Sam thinks. _I'm him._

A large stallion stands next to the other Sam. One eye is a startling blue, the other one is bright copper. The animal's pure white hide is marked with wild chestnut cat tracks and splotches of color. His mane is shades of blond and white.

Its finely chiseled head and neck suggests that he's half Arab, but Sam knows that's not all.

_My dam is Death's Eternal Apocahorse. My sire is the Great Spirit Horse…_

Sam smiles despite the pain. He knows who this is. _Nahele. _

_He's mine. My horse. _

_I'm a Horseman. The Bitchface of the Apocalypse._

That thought makes him grin a little.

_And I know my brother didn't leave me._

The other Sam smiles as he extends his hand, and the leech sinks in on itself like a rotten peach.

_We're going to fix this,_ Sam whispers inside his head.

* * *

The flies rise up all around him, and Chale doesn't move. He's heard thousands of them buzzing like that before, on battlefields and dead and dying towns.

_Killed them…I killed them all…_

The thought fills him up, it overwhelms him. All he can see are the disease ridden bodies of his fellow Horsemen and their mounts, gray-green skin pockmarked with boils and scabs, stretched over brittle yellow bone.

Something moves beside him, and at first Chale thinks it's just the massive cloud of flies moving around again. It's not.

He sees a horse, and a man.

As the man kneels beside him Chale stares at his face. Seems familiar somehow. Broad face, Hispanic features. Pleasant-looking.

The horse is huge. He sees Chale, whickers softly and nods in recogniition. His forelock falls over his eyes. He's a steel grey stallion with perfectly formed dapples.

"Ishmael," Chale whispers to himself.

Chale stares at the man, and he dully realizes that he's looking at himself.

The double holds out his hand. A leech twists and turns on his broad, strong palm. Chale nearly gags from the foul taste that rises up his throat, floods his mouth.

He can feel the damned things pressed against his skin.

The leech turns pale and dies.

Chale nods. _We're going to fix this._

* * *

"Momma, please," Rika moans. Cold steel slips in between her ribs, and Momma grins as though this is the happiest day of her life.

Not my fault, Rika thinks wildly, but it is. She's killed her brothers, Gaelen, Chale and Tiesen. Their shrunken bodies sit stiff and stick-like in the chairs around the dining room table.

She's killed Papa too. He grins at her like the others do, starved to death with a feast on the table before them.

Her fault. Always her fault.

"Rika," someone says quietly.

Rika turns her head, and she barely flinches as Momma stabs her again.

There's someone standing at the table, between Gaelen and Tiesen's bodies.

The girl looks sad.

The huge white horse standing next to her is a splendid animal, perfectly formed, wildly beautiful, not a shadow or dapple on her blinding white coat.

Rika blinks and the newcomer is twelve years old, red-headed and pale. In the next eyeblink she's tall and lean, dressed in white armor. Another eyeblink and the girl is sixteen, with pale skin and long blond hair this time. Through it all, her eyes remain the same; they are ageless, eternal, pools of dark copper and subtle gold and grey.

_It's me,_ Rika thinks to herself. _Me._

The girl raises her hand, turns it palm out so Rika can see. The sight of the leech makes her feel sick to her stomach, and for a brief moment Rika feels the slimy touch of hundreds of them snuggling up against her skin and her armor.

Rika's self nods at the gleam of realization in Rika's eyes.

_This isn't my fault,_ Rika thinks silently. _We're going to fix this._

* * *

Tiesen growls as the humans press down on him.

Glasya-Labolas pads up to him, smiling softly. Incredibly enough, the demon's tail wags energetically, as though he's very glad to see the Horseman. His expansive eagle wings flutter with excitement.

"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" the pup yelps happily. He rises on his hind legs and slaps Tiesen in the face. War is so tightly held he can't dodge the blow, that leaves five diagonal clawmarks across his face.

Tiesen blinks, and then he spits on the demon bastard.

Glasya-Labolas' eyes blaze crimson red as he reels back in shock. Tiesen's slammed forward onto the pavement by the human mob. He lands awkwardly on his hands and knees. The humans swarm him eagerly. There's so many of them the ones in front have to pull back and allow the others to have a turn at him.

They won't kill him, not yet. Not outright. That would be too merciful, and Glasya-Labolas won't allow it.

Tiesen ignores them despite the pain as his left cheekbone collapses.

"Tiesen," someone rumbles quietly.

He stares at the man standing behind Glasya. This one is tall, broad-shouldered, that handsome face framed by thick chest length dreadlocks.

It's like looking in a mirror.

The stallion standing next to the man is huge, a glossy red. The animal catches Tiesen's eye and whinnies a greeting to him.

The man holds out his hand, palm up, and Tiesen stares intently at the loathsome creature in his hand. It's legless, pale grey and slimy.

He remembers.

Remembers the bus yard trap where he and the Horsemen made their stand, depowered but defiant.

Remembers the jolt against his body as the tidal wave of leeches hit, the foul oily taste in his mouth as they latched onto him.

Above all Tiesen remembers the sudden weakness he felt. It sent him to his knees and then the ground. He'd never felt anything like that in his immortal life.

Tiesen stares at the leech. _Die_, he tells it. _Die._

The thing stiffens and stops moving.

Dead.

Tiesen smirks. _We're going to fix this._

* * *

Comparing Circe with Crowley's soccer mom witches would be the ultimate insult, one punishable by the slowest, most horrible death imaginable. That would be like comparing a goddess to an amoeba.

But the thing is, even a goddess can make a mistake.

She's ensorcelled groups of humans before with absolutely no problem. But Circe has never dealt with a group of beings as powerful as Horsemen before. She designed the leeches to drain off their considerable power, but when she took the time out to search for and to contact Dean and Samirah, power was diverted from the main spell supporting the leeches to the orb. Her power is considerable, and spells can be layered upon spells, but like it or not (and she doesn't) even _she_ has limits.

Now that she's found Death and his equine companion, Circe switches back to monitoring the Horsemen under her power. Famine and Pestilence are trapped inside their own heads. The Winchester boy and War are awake and suffering. Glasya-Labolas and the angel Castiel see to that.

Circe decides that all is well. She sees no need to increase her hold on them.

* * *

It starts small.

One of the leeches on Sam Winchester's lower left side gradually crumples into a tattered tag of flesh. It's been crushed from the inside, turned to useless, slimy pulp, but so silently that neither Castiel nor Circe notice.

At the same time one of the leeches on Nahele, Sam's horse, suffers the same fate.

No one notices that one of the leeches holding Chale silently withers and dies, as does a bug attached to Chale's horse, Ishmael.

Rika silently tells one of her leech captors to eat its neighbor. It does. The same thing happens to one of the creepy-crawlers on Rika's horse, Actaeon.

Tiesen focuses all his attention on one bug. He tells it to die, and the leech is most accommodating. A leech attached to Tiesen's mount, Ajani, is very agreeable and dies too.

Glasya-Labolas doesn't notice any of this.

They can't break free, not all at once. Slow and steady is the only way to go, otherwise Circe will notice and all will be lost.

All might be lost anyway, no matter what they do.

* * *

Pathways aren't beautiful or scenic, like the places they lead to. They're in-between places, grey, flat and featureless. There's no way to tell if the witch is watching them here, even now. For someone in Circe's pay grade, that's very likely, so Samirah and Dean ride along in complete silence.

Samirah keeps her ears pinned backwards. Dean is in his own little world now, and she doesn't like that. He sits heavy in the saddle, weighed down by his own fears and worries.

Lillith's handprint on his shoulder itches slightly, as does her new mark on his throat. His right leg throbs in time with his heartbeat. With each step Samirah takes Dean's skin prickles with the memory of Lillith's touch.

_You're mine, Dean._

Her touch…

_Always mine. _

Her mouth soft and warm against his skin…

_My good sweet, obedient boy…_

_Bitch,_ Samirah rumbles darkly. Dean doesn't respond or notice.

His head's not in the right place. He replays the scenes Circe showed them over and over again in his mind. Samirah pins her ears back at the image of his father, the hunter, Dean's sire in this life.

_You look just like the things we hunt, _the man rumbles._ You're not my son._

The mother, Dean's dam, is next. Samirah's never seen her before, not in the flesh. Only in his memory.

_How could you have dragged your brother into this?_

_Enough,_ Samirah thinks to herself. _This boy thinks too damn much._

She shakes her head smartly; the bright silver jiggle of her bridle gets Dean's attention, just like she knew it would.

_I still don't see why you won't let me stomp Lillith_, Samirah says crossly. _I can handle her._

_I never said you couldn't handle her. _

_Then why won't you let me stomp her?_

Dean sounds hesitant._ Because the more she touches a person, the easier it gets to infect them._

_She touched you._

_I know that, _he replies dully.

_So you still won't let me stomp her?_

_No. I don't want you anywhere near her, until after I gank her. _There's no heat in his thought voice, just worry and concern.

_I'm in the mood for a pancake._ The mental image Samirah projects is deliberately silly. She stands on her hind legs and tap dances on the damn witch instead.

Dean nearly laughs out loud. _Circe? You can stomp her all you want to. I'll let you have first crack at her._

He sounds more relaxed now. That's exactly what she wants to hear.

_What about Castiel?_

_I think Sam has dibs on his trench-coated ass._

_And Glasya-Labolas? _

_You'd have to get in line behind Tiesen. _

Samirah whinnies with pleasure at the thought. She immediately perks up.

Dean's not fooled. Not one bit. She's put on this little show to get him out of his head, put his mind on the business at hand.

_Thanks,_ he murmurs silently.

_For what? I didn't do anything. _

His game face settles more firmly into place. He untenses his shoulders, shifts the hidden Spear of Destiny to a more comfortable position flat against his back underneath his greatcoat.

He feels better. He sits lighter in the saddle now.

To hell with this emo crap. He's got work to do.

_"Do this one thing, Dean, and we'll let your family go."_

Yeah riiight. Sure you will.

The bitch said _we_, not _I_, which means she's not working alone. Heaven's a possible ally, but in Circe's case Hell's more likely.

If he doesn't kill Lillith, he loses his family. If he kills her, the Apocalypse starts. Huh. Typical Winchester luck.

Then there's Abaddon. Dean killed the smaller Abaddon, the fragment, with the power of the Colt by yanking its heart out and flash-frying it. The real Abaddon's one huge sonofabitch, two hundred feet tall, give or take a foot.

What worked once might work again, but he doesn't have the Colt's power anymore. At least, he doesn't think he does. Dean looks down at the stump of his right hand. Nothing. No joy. He's felt no trace of it for a while now, and he doesn't know how to call it back. Hell, he doesn't even know why he was able to absorb the damn thing in the first place.

Okay. That dog won't hunt. But he still knows a trick or two.

Best case scenario? They get their loved ones back again, whole and safe and the world doesn't end.

Worse case? All bets, as they say, are off.

Heaven and Hell will burn.

* * *

Samirah takes another step, and the greyness around them melts away. Colors return. They're back in this reality again. Sparse sandy soil underneath, unnaturally dark sky overhead.

Dean huffs in surprise. Samirah stops. Her ears twitch back and forth at all the sounds around them. It's the highway again, the very same highway where Samirah nearly died, but that's not what makes them pause.

Less than half a mile away sits a contingent of military vehicles, Bradley tanks, trucks and Humvees. Dean hears the radio chatter (_Tango Charlie Seven to Delta Six, Horseman sighted-_), recognizes the panic underneath the calm in the soldier's voice. Black Hawk helicopters and Cobra gunships turn and circle over the troops like angry dragonflies.

"Huh. That tickles." Samirah snorts excitedly as she turns towards them to get a better look. Red dots from laser targeting systems settle on Samirah's chest and head. Dean senses several of them grouped tightly on his back, then his chest as Samirah completes the turn.

The laser points promptly disappear, absorbed by the splendid blackness of her coat and Dean's clothing.

Horse and rider listen to the radio com that crackles in the air all around them. "No lock on target. No lock-"

"What are they doing?" she sounds puzzled.

"Taking our pictures. Smile for the camera, princess."

"Really?" Samirah pricks her ears. "How nice."

From this distance the two hundred plus men look like bright reddish orange flares of body heat. Dean sees tank turrets turn almost lazily in their direction. Every RPG, assault rifle, thermal imaging device and night vision scope in the area is trained on them now, from the sky above down to ground level.

Despite all this firepower, these men are not a threat.

A small boy sits facing them on the ground a few feet away. His face is smudged with dirt, and his clothes are rumpled and grass stained. His backpack is on the ground beside him. Charlie the pet reaper looks pretty good, considering that Dean crumpled him up like a wad of paper before.

The boy is no threat either. Never has been. Neither are the hundreds of refugees off in the distance, behind him. They're still desperately trying to put distance between themselves and Las Vegas.

The humans mill around in groups, but they don't get far. They are blocked by a shimmering wall that stretches off in both directions, out to the horizon, as far as the eye can see. The wall is composed of reapers. Thousands of them. They stand shoulder to shoulder, shifting and wraith-like. They shift into human form, black-suited, their heavily lined, pale faces as impassive as a granite mountainside, their eyes flat and inhumanly calm.

"Sonofabitch," Dean whispers. He turns in the saddle as he looks for another way into the city. There isn't one.

"Guess I pissed 'em off," Dean says mildly.

Samirah nods briskly, then walks forward again. "Guess you did."

The reaper kid looks tired. Worn down to the bone. He sighs wearily as they stop in front of him. It's pretty obvious he expects them to start whaling on him again. After all, he did try to reap Samirah when she was down.

Samirah stares at him boldly, almost fondly, ears pricked, without a touch of hard feelings.

"Nothing's written in stone, kid." Dean indicates all of Creation with a nod of his head. "Not even this."

"They said it was," Charlie shakes his head tiredly. "Said this is my unlife from now on."

"Fine. Stay miserable. Your choice."

"_You're_ doing what they want you to."

Dean shrugs. "I'm twisted that way. You wanna shake things up, then do it. But if you try to steal my horse again, I'll kick your ass."

Horseman and reaper stare hard at each other.

Then Charlie grins, shyly at first. "I…I always wanted to go see the Rainbow Bridge."

Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. "Then what's keeping you?"

Charlie laughs. The boy becomes transparent. As he lifts off from the ground his essence separates into a cluster of vivant colored lights that streak skyward.

"Huh," Samirah says cheerfully as she watches the kid go. "He reminds me of you."

"What?" Dean grumbles. "No, he doesn't."

"Yes, he does." Samirah's tone indicates that she's already made up her mind on the subject, and there's nothing he can say or do that will make her change it.

Samirah resumes her slow, stately walk forward.

The humans behind the reapers press up against the barrier with their hands. Their eyes widen as Dean and Samirah approach, so it's obvious they can see them. It's also obvious that they can't see the reapers, otherwise they wouldn't push against them like that and would more than likely run screaming in the other direction.

Samirah stops until she's practically nose to nose with the silent creatures. Dean stares at the faces, up and down the line.

The reapers don't move. They don't blink or speak. They resemble a line of rudely carved statues, mute and unseeing, set in one long row in a stone garden somewhere. Their expressions don't change, not one bit, but Dean and Samirah get it.

_Thou shalt not pass._

* * *

Next update: Thursday


	60. Chapter 60

_**A/N:**_ Soundtrack for this chapter: "Live and Let Die" - Paul McCartney

* * *

_**Chapter 60**_

On the other side of the barrier Darlene Kibbe sees the Horseman and his black horse and feels her heart skid into her throat with a hard, dry thud. Up until now she'd deliberately hung back with her kids, away from the front of the crowd. That way if anything bad happened they might have time to run in the opposite direction.

So much for that bright idea. She doesn't have her service revolver anymore, and even if she did it wouldn't do any good, not against him.

She tightens her grip on her kids. Rick hugs her tightly around the waist, but Darlene doesn't notice or mind. Paula has a death grip on her mother's left hand. Darlene's fingers on that hand will stay numb for another hour or so.

All of the refugees have the same wide-eyed deer in the headlights look.

She watches the horse, walk forward, proud and regal, her nostrils flared, eyes bright. The animal's shattered mess of a right foreleg is healed again. The Horseman doesn't look rageful, just purposeful and intent. He's still incredibly handsome, but he seems more human now. There's no fire in those moss green eyes of his. For the first time Darlene realizes that while his gloved left hand holds the reins loosely, his right hand is a stump. She hadn't noticed that before, but none of that makes her feel any better.

_Your damn horse is healed. She's all right, she's got her leg back, _Darlene thinks. _So why the hell did you come back?_

She feels small, weak and helpless. The smell of smoke is in the air; she remembers the heat of the flames painting her skin. Her legs tremble at the memory of how he forced her down on the ground just by telling her to kneel. He was beautiful and terrible at the same time, an avenging angel intent on making them all pay for hurting his horse, his companion.

_"You want to keep your family together? I get it. I do. I can help you with that."_

She recognized the look on his face then. Real wrath of God stuff, rage at they things are. She recognized the look because she'd felt exactly the same way, as her parents lay dying in the hospital after the car accident a year ago. She wanted to burn down the world, and everyone in it.

The difference was, _he_ could do it. With just a thought.

Something or _someone_ stopped him from killing everyone the last time…

_"Mom…'m sorry. 'm so damn sorry…"_

…but she can't count on that happening again.

For one panicky moment Darlene thinks she's made direct eye contact with the man and his beast, but then their eyes move over and past her.

The rider's head is tilted down and slightly to the side, as if there's someone standing directly in front of him. Judging from that slight frown on his face it's obvious he doesn't like what he sees, but it's also obvious that he hasn't even noticed Darlene and he's not interested in the humans. It looks as though he's silently communicating with someone, and he's apparently not liking the answers he's getting.

She pulls her kids close to her and backs up, and that's when the horse turns begins to move, from a walk to a trot, and finally a canter.

Every refugee stops and stares. They all see it, brief flickers of silvery light, pale shadows silhouetted against the sleek black of horse and rider as they move along. The air flashes with this weird jerky glow, as if reality was a flip book and unseen hands were turning the pages at a rapid clip.

The glow's right where the barrier is. The horse continues to sidle alongside it, much like a horse in a pasture will pace along the fence.

Another flash, and the images grow solid.

There are people standing there.

Hundreds of them. Thousands. They all wear black suits, they stand ramrod straight, shoulder to shoulder, in a long line that stretches to the horizon in either direction. No one behind them can see their faces, just the backs of their heads and necks, pale and wrinkled. Their skin looks old, ancient.

A cold chill crawls down Darlene's spine.

_Don't turn around. I thought I wanted to see, but I don't. I really really don't_.

She stumble-steps backwards, pulling her kids along with her.

The Horseman stops. After a long, tense moment horse and rider turn and walk off in the other direction. The man's broad shoulders slump. The mare walks with her head down.

They look dejected. Defeated.

_They're leaving,_ Darlene thinks, and she wonders why the idea of them leaving should fill her with such dread.

They're leaving. She should feel glad. Happy.

She doesn't.

Forty feet away now. Fifty, then sixty. The air around the man and horse turns copper, like a faded desert sunset.

They're gone.

"Is it safe?" Paula whispers softly. She sounds younger than her years, a small child looking for assurance and safety.

Darlene shakes her head. "I don't…I don't know…"

Both kids look shocked. "You don't know?" Rick blurts out.

"No, I meant - "

The ground shakes, a rolling vibration that makes everyone human stagger backwards.

_Thunder,_ Darlene thinks. She glances up at the dark sky above and realizes she's wrong.

Underneath the rumble there's a softer sound, a squeak, soft and rhythmic. Having spent part of her life on a ranch, Darlene immediately recognizes what this is. It's the sound of a running horse surging forward again and again, the subtle squeak of well-oiled saddle leather.

The black horse and her rider come thundering back into view out of thin air.

Incredibly enough, some of the refugees standing around pull out their cell phones and take pictures.

The great black mare runs fully extended, eyes blazing, ears pricked forward, her elegant long neck stretched out, that beautiful head of hers bobbing with each stride. She kicks up large divots of soil each time her hooves strike the ground.

The Horseman leans forward in the saddle. He's not urging the animal on; it's obvious he doesn't have to. They move as one. His hood is up, a pool of pitch blackness around his head and neck. His eyes are twin flares of bright copper.

Lightning flashes overhead, and for a second Darlene sees the skull beneath his skin.

That has the desired effect. The human refugees scramble away from the barrier.

Darlene stands there, transfixed.

The creatures in the black suits stand as still as statues.

And the black horse shows no sign of stopping as she charges at the line.

_Chicken…they're playing chicken…_Darlene thinks as she turns away. She pushes Paula and Rick in front of her, wordlessly urging them to run.

She runs, but she can't resist a last backward glance. A nanosecond before the moment of impact she hears a collective gasp of surprise that echoes in the air. Human throats never made that noise.

The ghost people flicker, up and down the line, and then vanish._ All_ of them.

The black horse executes a perfect sliding stop, her head lowered and reaching, walking with her front legs, hind legs straight, that beautiful butt of hers tucked in perfectly.

Darlene laughs. Her kids turn and look at her like she's lost her mind.

The black horse rumbles laughter. She tosses her head, then rises up onto her hind legs and paws at the air. She drops down on all fours, bows her neck and prances in place like a warhorse.

The Horseman smirks as he drops his hood. He looks normal now, moss green eyes, freckled skin.

"Punks," he growls softly. He reaches down and strokes his horse lovingly on her neck.

* * *

Samirah walks forward, slowly, with great dignity. Several of the refugees run as they move forward, but for the most part everyone stands quietly and simply moves aside to allow them to pass.

Dean sees the looks on their faces; he recognizes each and every expression. They fear him. They hate him. With good reason, perhaps.

He locks eyes with Darlene Kibbe.

Her expression softens slightly. She's not angry at him. It's not pity, either. It's more like she understands him now, despite everything he did, everything that's happened. Dean feels uneasy. He expects anger. He deserves that.

But he doesn't get it. Not from her.

Dean sits straight and tall in the saddle and nods at the deputy in acknowledgement as Samirah continues her stately walk through the crowd.

Somehow Dean manages to keep a straight face. Her kids, Rick and Paula, glare at him. They've got Sammy's bitchface.

Samirah eases into a trot, and then stretches smoothly into a gallop. Once they clear the crowd they vanish.

* * *

_Huh,_ Darlene thinks to herself. _He looked sad._

"Good riddance," Paula huffs. "Mom, he was probably gonna kill us. Again. I don't like him."

"Me neither," Rick mutters.

"He could have killed us before," Darlene murmurs. "But he didn't." She gives her kids a hug, fierce and tight, and finds she's having a hard time letting them go this time.

Paula and Rick eye their mother doubtfully. "You sound like you're sweet on him or something," Paula mutters.

"You're dreaming, kiddo," Darlene says firmly. The way before them is clear now, and she turns in that direction. "Let's get the heck out of here before something else happens."

So they do.

* * *

_One more_, Sam thinks to himself. He ignores the beatings, the broken bones, ignores the pain. The blows are faint touches against his skin. He kills the next leech just as he did the first. Another leech fastened to Nahele dies too.

Rika, Chale and Tiesen work silently as well. They've never been this weak before. It takes an effort to direct one leech at a time to eat another, to waste away from illness, to die quietly. More small deaths, a bit at a time. One for them, one for their horses.

Circe doesn't notice. Neither does Castiel or Glasya-Labolas, and the dog-pile of entranced humans surrounding Tiesen are too filled with blood-lust to care.

Gabriel believed God when She said she wouldn't help the Horsemen, but She also meant She wouldn't help the other side, either.

What will be, will be.

* * *

_All is well,_ Circe thinks to herself. The images in the dark ice around her tell her so. The Horsemen continue to cycle through their torment. There's no need for anything else, at least not until Dean Winchester appears at Treasure Island, but Circe has never been one to rest on her laurels. That was the main reason the Lords of Hell approached her with this task.

The thought of Dean Winchester and his horse brings a smile to Circe's face. All that power and angst.

_They lied to me,_ she thinks with amusement. _Tried to fool me into thinking they didn't care about the others._

Well, you can't blame a man for trying. Winchester was a hunter in this life. A damn good one, from what she'd heard. Being tricky is an asset in that line of work. That ability is useful in her line of work as well.

She lied to him, of course. There will be no "happily ever after" for him and his extended family, not if she has anything to do with it.

Circe's skin is healed now, but it still tingles with the backlash from Winchester's power. She has no desire to experience that again, but the memory of that pain and agony does give her incentive to prevent an occurrence.

One can never have enough insurance.

She glances over fondly at her lead hellhound sitting on the shoreline of the lake, and the huge animal instantly comes to attention. It stands up in one smooth motion, its long whiplike tail wagging with barely contained glee. The other hounds wake up. Glowing red eyes as large as basketballs blink open. Triangular shaped heads covered with thick grey scales lift up from huge paws the size of manhole covers. The other hounds stand up, each one grinning and trembling in anticipation.

These are her babies, her special ones, a blend of human, elephant, snake and canine. They easily dwarf the largest African elephant in the wild. They're an improvement upon Alastair's hounds, in both temperament and ability, but she still keeps an eye on them when they're out in the world. Sometimes even the most well trained hound can get carried away in the heat of the moment, and bargaining chips are no good to her dead.

She has one such group in mind. Those humans in that place, for instance. That Roadhouse.

She creates another orb of dark light, a pathfinder this time. The hounds sit up alertly and eye the object with much interest. They'll follow the orb where ever it goes. An image of the Roadhouse and the humans inside isn't very interesting, but they bare their teeth and lick their lips at the sight of the cat goddess Bastet.

"Here, my beauties. Follow my light. Bring the humans in this place to me. I want them alive and whole." The beta hound whines in bitter disappointment at the restriction. Circe ignores him. He always was more bloody-minded than most, even in his human form.

"We don't need the cat. You may play with her, but after you secure the humans first."

The hounds raise their heads and howl. The orb rises slowly. It disappears into a large crack in the ceiling of hell. The hounds follow, scrambling onto the highlands, leaping from mountain to mountain until they reach the fracture and the earth above.

* * *

As the Imperial Palace darkens with smoke demons, so does Ao-kuang, the owner and manager of the place. He's the highest and mightiest of the Four Dragons. Ao-kuang's in his human male form now, tall, bald-headed but still very imposing. He loves the bustle of the front desk, but now he's preoccupied with keeping an eye on the human customers. They see what's going on out in the streets. They huddle in the lobby, stand around in small groups, whispering.

Ordinarily he'd reassure them. Send them to the dining room, comp them a free breakfast. That's what being a good manager's all about.

Lately his thoughts haven't been so good.

Ao-kuang thinks about his classic car collection, and it suddenly occurs to him that he wants to smash them up. He never felt that way before.

Maybe it's not the cars. He just feels like he wants to smash something.

Or _someone_.

He thinks about the reaper, Tessa. He likes her, but she had the nerve to bring those spirits into his hotel, and he's suddenly sure he doesn't like them. That tall dark man, that Winchester hunter. Ao-kuang didn't like the way the man looked around, like he was sizing things up.

Winchester's related to those Horsemen, Death and that new one, the Bitchface. All the more reason to dislike the man.

Ao-kuang doesn't realize or care he didn't feel that way before.

The rest of those spirits look like trouble too. That priest man, and the older man and woman and that boy. They came with Tessa, and she brought trouble to his hotel.

Maybe he should let her know how he feels about that.

The blonde woman who came with them…she looked interesting, all soft and pretty. He's always been interested in young human females.

_Let's go see them_, this voice hisses inside his head. It's not his voice, but close enough.

_You want to see Tessa again, don't you?_

Ao-kuang nods.

_Well then. _The voice sounds eager with the promise of pain and laughs when Ao-kuang reaches underneath the counter and pulls out a fully functional battle ax with ornate dragon carvings.

_That's good. Really good. Some of those hunters might need to be persuaded. _

Ao-kuang grins to himself he hefts the weapon. He leaves the front desk and walks towards the elevators.

No one notices this. No one asks why the manager's holding a blunt instrument in his hands and grinning from ear to ear. They don't have a chance to. Black smoke demons coil lazily out of the walls and attach themselves to everyone in the lobby.

Some of the demons are so thrilled to have meatsuits again that they

The protector dragons in the mural are overwhelmed. Their bright metallic scales, so green and vibrant, darken and dull. Their eyes turn black like everyone else's. They pull themselves out of the mural with a tug and a shrug of their massive shoulders and follow Ao-kuang to the elevator.

Ao-kuang stands there waiting for the doors to open. He's pretty sure Tessa will be happy to see him.

* * *

Lillith stomps over to the curb in front of Treasure Island and sits down with a thump and a flounce of her torn white satin dress. Even though she's seven feet tall, with skin the color and texture of dark blue leather, she actually resembles a petulant brat who's finally run out of steam and decided to give herself a time out. She's seen better days.

Obviously.

Committing mass genocide is intense and exhausting, even for an ancient hell goddess. There was a time when she would have breezed through the hundreds of victims, but that was when she was back in her prime. She sits there with her head in her hands, elbows on her knees, and she shrinks in size, from seven feet down to five foot eight inches tall.

Lillith scowls at the jittering corpses piled around her feet. Most of them are dismembered, an arm here, a pile of heads, torsos and severed legs over there, body parts scattered around like fallen leaves on a blustery autumn day. Towards the end of the killing spree she simply started snapping necks and disemboweling people until even that became tiresome. She didn't gouge the eyes out because she enjoyed seeing the fear and confusion in them. It's boring now. The human souls are still trapped inside that torn, mutilated flesh. The reapers haven't shown up yet, and she knows they won't.

The high pitched shrieking of the souls makes her stomach growl. There weren't any babies in the crowd, either. A nice little snack would have been nice. A toddler, or a two year old. Instead there was screaming manflesh that wore too much tanning lotion and aftershave and shrieking womanflesh with those damned silicone breast transplants. Lillith shudders at the thought of eating one of those teenagers she mangled. Horrid creatures. Tough flesh. It's best to harvest humans while they're young and tender, without all those damned additives.

Miles below her feet Abaddon the Fallen crouches sulking in the darkness. That's one good thing. The _only_ good thing. He's shut the hell up. _Finally_.

She's so tired she can't hold her head up. Those long crooked horns of hers weigh a ton now. She grunts in disgust as she runs her clawed fingertips through her hair. When she pulls her hands away long tangled strands weave around her fingers like a cat's cradle. Her sleek platinum blonde hair is matted and frizzy. She doesn't look pretty anymore.

There's no reason to look pretty. And it's all _Dean's_ fault.

He made her happy, and then he went away. _Bastard._

She's spent the last hour making all this live meat shriek and scream, and he _still_ hasn't come back. This isn't her fault. None of this is. The Apocalypse hasn't started yet, but the Lords of Hell can't blame her for this.

There are still hundreds of live humans trapped at Treasure Island. Lillith hasn't dropped her shield around the place, and she's feeling too ornery to let them go.

A flurry of movement to her right makes her growl as she swivels her head in that direction. The sound is deep enough to rattle the fillings of everyone around her. Lillith's large white eyes narrow with anger. It's the red-haired woman and that damn human male with the camera. She allowed them to live before; they filmed her as she slaughtered people in the crowd.

They bore her now. Just like the rest. She doesn't need them anymore.

And besides, she's gotten her second wind.

Lillith leans forward, then rises up, places her palms flat against the ground. She's four legged now, and she grins evilly at the pair as she skitters towards them in a sideways motion.

Cameraman Beeson is mesmerized by this. He's getting the shot, by God, he's gotten all the shots for the past hour. As long as he looked through the viewfinder he was able to distance himself from all the death. This was news, and they were on the scene for it. They had the exclusive.

Gamble stumbles as she backs up. The thing that was formerly the beautiful woman in white keeps right on coming towards them, and the rest of the people behind them scatter as best they can.

It takes Beeson and Gamble another moment or so to realize that they are in deep shit, as the saying goes. They've watched others die, and now it's their turn. They're not bad people, they were just too focused on the job at hand. Nothing could happen to them as long as they had the camera. Neither one realized that at one point the fiend they were filming could reach around the camera and rip them to shreds.

The monster woman chuckles as her claws lengthen into what looks like railroad spikes, blackish red and slick. She carelessly paws at the pavement with her left forepaw, and chips of concrete fly up into the air.

The air directly behind her glows, faintly at first. Pale orange, the color of a really beautiful sunset. Orange deepens into copper, new penny bright. The monster woman doesn't notice the man who steps out of the glow behind her. She roars as she rises up onto her hind legs and lunges forward.

The man puts his left hand around her neck, his right arm around her waist and forcibly yanks her backward. Her white eyes widen in shock. She jerks forward and claws at the air, but he holds her fast.

Beeson immediately falls back into old habits: he zooms in on the newcomer's face.

* * *

Miles away, in Washington DC, Victor Hendrickson sits back in his chair and gingerly pinches the tender spot between his eyes. He's stared at the wall of high definition screens all morning and the strain is finally getting to him. Everything that comes in is being recorded but he and his partner Reidy watch the incoming data anyway.

The live feeds come from everywhere, and nowhere. Weather cams, satellite recon, even traffic cams, for God's sake, and it's not the federal government's doing. These vids have gone viral on the internet. Facebook. You Tube. Someone wants humanity to have a front-row seat, and there's so much footage it's impossible to censor it all. By now the scenes are becoming old hat: tornadoes spinning and hissing through Manhattan, thick slabs of blue ice floating up the river Thames. He ignores the satellite recon photos of the giants sitting on the hillsides outside Vegas. The last time he saw something like that was when his wife dragged him to the movies to see that _Clash of The Titans_ remake.

Hendrickson opens his eyes again and stares. One scene dominates all others. He sees that freakish looking woman thing wearing that tattered white dress.

He sees the man in black holding her, and everything comes to a screeching halt around him.

"Hey, wait a minute," Reidy whispers softly. "Isn't that our boy?"

Hendrickson doesn't answer.

He sees spiky dark blond hair. Freckled skin. Those elegant tribal scars around his right eye reflect the copper fire in his eyes. The midnight black clothes he wears are a sharp contrast to the monster's tattered white rags.

Victor Hendrickson finally remembers to breathe again.

_Dean Winchester,_ he thinks to himself. _He came back. The sonofabitch came back._

* * *

2 chapters next week: Dean, Lillith and Abaddon party in Vegas. Somebody's not gonna make it.


	61. Chapter 61

_**Soundtrack for this chapter:**_ I Still Have A Soul (from the motion picture _Rise of the Planet of the Apes_)

* * *

_**Chapter 61**_

Bastet crouches atop the dumpster in back of the Roadhouse. She casts an amused glance at the woman with the gun inside the building. Chale's current lover. A human and a hunter. Pestilence never did what was expected of him in his personal life. It was one of the things she still loved about him. She could have refused his request to protect these humans, but they both knew she never would.

The cat goddess scents the air as a hot dry wind blows in from the east. She chatters softly, and her long tail twitches back and forth. She senses blood in the air, red and raw. The scents she picks up are a heady, wild aroma, canine, elephant and snake, mixed with sulfur.

Hell is coming to this little corner of the world.

"It is a good day to die," Bastet thinks to herself. She puts her spear down on the top of the dumpster. It will do no good against such as these. She unsheathes her claws.

A huge dark shape rises out of the weeds in the back lot.

Bastet snarls. Her tail lashes back and forth. She leaps forward, slashing its face and neck with her claws. The young hellhound yelps in pain and then twists around to meet her. Its jaws clamp down on Bastet's right thigh.

The hound shakes her like a terrier shakes a rat. then tosses her up into the air. Another hound charges in and slams into her.

She hits the ground in an awkward sprawl, and everything goes black.

* * *

At first glance it's business as usual at Circus Circus. A casual observer would notice that the sky's dark, but the casino and hotel complex are brightly lit. The parking lot is packed with cars and tour buses. There's no foot traffic, but there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for that. Circus Circus blazes in the gloom. There are thousands of frightened humans hunkered down inside the buildings. It's a human trait to turn on the lights against the darkness outside.

The End of the World? Nahh. Couldn't be. This is business as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

A casual observer would forget all that once they spotted the big black horse standing quietly on the top of the Adventure dome in the complex.

Samirah is a finely carved ebony statue, absolutely still except for an occasional flick of her ears and tail. Her bright copper eyes are focused on a point further down the Vegas Strip. That way lies Treasure Island, past the Fashion Show Mall and the New Frontier.

The structure she stands on is just as exotic looking as the other buildings in town. She's seen pavilions like this before, in other lands, other deserts, other times, but they were made of billowing fabric, with flags and banners, not glass and metal. The Adventure dome resembles a huge ornate tent constructed of thick pink glass panels laid over a teal green frame. Any other time Samirah would have wandered inside to take a look. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but that wouldn't do much good against Death's Eternal Apocahorse.

She'll have to follow her curiosity another time. If there is another time. She's alone now, and she definitely doesn'tlike that.

Gaelen's left her. Again.

_I'm asking you to stay here for now. I don't want you anywhere near that skank. Not until after I gank her. You gotta trust me, okay?_

_There it was, that damn look on his face. He looked younger than his years when he did that, so open and earnest and somehow pleading. She couldn't defy him, not when he looked like that, and they both knew it. _

_You come when I call you, and not a moment before…. _

Samirah snorts angrily to herself at the memory.

She trusts him with her very existence, but sometimes that trust tests the limits of her patience. He scares her sometimes, with this obsession to protect her and everyone he loves at all costs. He's always been that way, and she knows he'll never change.

_He'd better not do that martyr thing. He'd better not-_

The thought makes her copper eyes flare angrily. Samirah stamps her right foreleg hard, once. The thick rose-colored panel softens and then reforms as a perfect hoof print burns into the glass.

* * *

As Dean turns away from Samirah and steps into the pathway, his features shift, from angsty to curiously blank. Intense. He wears his game face as well as he ever did when he was a hunter. As a Horseman there was no need for a game face. Dean doesn't realize and doesn't care that Dr. Phil (McGraw, the real one, not Sam) would have a field day analyzing his mental state right now.

He's Dean Winchester, and he's going back for his brother Sam. It's time to kill some evil sonsofbitches and raise a little hell.

He's Gaelen, and he'll be damned if anything bad will happen to his brothers, Tiesen and Chale, and his sister, Rika.

He's the Horseman Death. The defiant one, the only one who came back. Death is his business, and he does it supremely well.

Dean doesn't bother to mask his power signature. A fug in Lillith's pay grade would probably sense him coming anyway, but he still makes no real effort to hide. That goes against his natural inclination, and everything he ever learned as a hunter. It's a not so subtle message to Circe: _I'm here, bitch._ _Leave my family alone._

Some of the people in the crowd look dazed when they see Dean's glow. They stare bug-eyed, fully expecting Something Else Terrible And Fugly to step out and say Howdy.

Then they see it's him, they _really_ see him, and their faces relax. They lose that look of sharp edged terror. A couple of dudes at the farthest end of the crowd pump their fists up in the air and make a noise _(Yeahh!) _and that looks, feels and sounds weird, especially with all the carnage underfoot.

The feeling's contagious, the others in the crowd relax and look on with new interest. Dean gets it. A few seconds ago they were facing a horrible death; now they sound happy. They look relieved.

They cheered. That was it.

They were cheering for him.

The cavalry has just arrived, Superman's on the scene, Batman's here, and the bad guy is down for the count. All's right with the world and they'll be home eating dinner with their families tonight.

Some of the people in the front of the crowd smile at Dean and pull out their smartphones. Beeson never stops filming, and Gamble looks like she's ready to walk over and conduct an interview with him. The reaction people have to everything weird never ceases to amaze him.

_They think it's safe._ _They think they're safe because I'm back. _

_Stupid bastards. _

Dean ignores them. Lillith has his full attention now; he drops his gaze on her sorry ass like a gun sight. A thunderstorm of killing energy gathers itself in the space behind his eyes, bright green backlit by copper light. Dean figures he has five seconds, if that long, before Lillith senses his presence and turns around.

She doesn't. That's a piece of good luck he didn't expect.

Lillith is in a killing rage, and the red-headed news bitch and her cameraman are her targets now. The startled looks on their faces are priceless: mouths frozen open in O of surprise and fear, eyes bulging like doorknobs. The rest of the survivors part like the Red Sea behind them, frantic to get out of the way, and Dean just can't bring himself to care if those two are scared shitless. At least they're still in one piece.

Three hundred twenty six humans at Treasure Island weren't that lucky.

The sidewalk is easily the worst thing he's ever seen, even as a Horseman. Even on a killing field there's usually a sense of peace, that the worst is finally, _mercifully_ over. Not here. It looks bad and smells even worse, wet blood and bile and the green swampy smell of open intestines.

The notdead shriek inside Dean's head (_can'tbehappeningthiscan'tbehappening_…) and the eyes are the worst, bright and impossibly alive in that bloodied, bruised flesh. They're aware that he's back. Some of them look like a jury.

_Why didn't you stop this?_

Some plead for help with their eyes.

It's his fault, of course. He's pissed off the reapers, and now they've gone on strike. The unreaped ones here are his weight too, as are the living.

Dean lunges forward just as Lillith charges at the humans, and he immediately has his hands full (well, both arms and his good left hand, in fact) with one hundred fifty pounds of enraged hell goddess.

She's strong, but he can hold her back. He feels good. Pretty damn good, actually. Even his right leg feels stronger now. The white darkness is safely cocooned by his power in his shattered leg. He no longer has to concentrate on keeping the bones knit together.

He doesn't think of the injury as his. It's Samirah's injury, Samirah's pain. Even if Circe hadn't stuck her nose into the mix, Lillith already occupied the number one space on Dean's hit list. No one hurts Samirah and gets away with it.

Lillith struggles in his arms like a mad thing, hissing and squalling. Her pulsepoint underneath her jaw beats wildly against his left palm. That and the feel of her body writhing against his chest and arms makes his skin crawl. It's like hugging an oily leather sack filled with hot water and pissed off snakes squirming and snapping at each other inside.

The instant they make contact Dean's eyes spark icy white. An echo of white darkness. A memory that ripples through his entire body. The rumble roar of his power underneath his skin idles down, and then fades to a whisper.

_Dude, _a voice inside his head whispers._ She's got us now. _

Dean listens, and why not? It's _their_ voice. His and Lillith's, just like it was back there on the beach. He feels more settled now, like he's reclaimed a part of him that was lost.

No one notices the change in his eye color; it's gone in an eyeblink.

Lillith jerks forward again, and Dean holds her back easily. She's pissed off. He gets that. _He_ left _her_, which is pretty damn funny when you really think about it. Usually everyone he loves leaves him, and this time _he's _the one who left.

But he came back. That should count for something.

_Sonofabitch…_

That sounds like his voice too, rougher, more desperate, but he ignores it. There' s no trace of _her_ in that whisper.

Dean stares at the back of Lillith's head. His eyes are a slightly duller shade of green now, sheened over with a film of pearly white.

_Too long, you dumb sonofabitch…_

All he can think about is the press of her body against his. He sees blood splattered dark blue skin, and he thinks that she's never looked so beautiful. Even like this.

…_held onto it for too long…_

He wants to make it up to her, all the trouble he's caused her.

_In his mind's eye Dean sees himself turning Lillith around in his arms until they're face to face. The feel of her body against his makes him instantly hard, and as they kiss, slowly, deeply, he turns white again, his freckled skin turns pale, his hair loses color, as does his cassock and greatcoat, all the way down to the soles of his boots. _

_He's her White Horseman again, and there's nothing wrong with that, is there? _

Samirah would understand.

He'd _make_ her understand.

_He sees himself calling down lightning from above and the gigantic bolt is so hot, so brilliant, it obliterates everything around Treasure Island. The air and the ground would blaze white hot, brighter than the sun, and the air would be filled with fine grey ash and bone fragments. __They'd lean into each other, and she'd be his again, pale and beautiful again, and nothing else would matter. Not the Apocalypse, not the seal, not Abaddon._

Damn Heaven, and damn Hell. He's hers again, the way he wanted to be, the way he _should_ be, _always_, now and forever. His life, his decision. Who'd care? Who'd-

_No._

That one word echoes inside his head. It's a roar, and a whisper.

_NO!_

Everything draws away from him then. He's barely aware of Lillith in his arms, twisting and hissing.

_Thirty five seconds…_

Dean hates that voice. He tries to ignore it, but he can't. The muscles in his arms and shoulders lock up.

_This is a mind fuck. She's got me. As long as I touch her, she's got me…_

Thirty five seconds. He's been in direct contact with her for thirty five seconds. The white darkness in his bones….he's held onto it for so long. Too long.

_You should feel flattered, Dean,_ the Lillith surrogate on the beach said._ She put in fifty times the dose for you. _

No matter how much he burned the white darkness down, any speck is more than enough to infect him all over again. Holding her, touching her like this completed the circuit. Closed the switch.

_If I don't kill this bitch, Sam dies._

His other voice, the one of_ him_ joined with _her,_ weakens.

_So will Rika. And Tiesen. And Chale._

Dean does the only thing he can do. He lets go of Lillith. He lets go of her, even though it feels like dying.

He steps back and fades out in a violent snap of copper light.

* * *

What she sees makes Samirah toss her head in surprise.

_He left? Why did he-_

She starts forward, only to stop as Dean whispers inside her head.

_Samirah? Not yet._

* * *

At the Imperial Palace the demons keep watch. The walls echo with their laughter. All the guests and the staff have been overtaken, except for the spirits of John and Mary Winchester, Caleb, Deanna and Samuel Campbell and Pastor Jim Murphy and the reaper, Tessa. As long as they remain within the confines of the Palace they're corporeal. They can suffer, and they can bleed.

It's the first time some of the demons have ever had meatsuits, and it shows. Seventeen of the human vessels in the lobby are maimed when their demons run them head first into the walls repeatedly, or walk their meatsuits straight through the plate glass windows. They laugh at the sight of blood, broken limbs and glass sticking out of their skin every which way.

Some of the more experienced demons roll their eyes at this; they hate working with amateurs, but Hell needed every available demon for this. Now the foolish ones will have to stay inside that ruined flesh for the duration, because nobody else wants to share.

On the fifth floor the demon Enenuth turns lazily in the space on the other side of Suite 5A, where the spirits have gone to ground. He's a massive coil of purplish black smoke, an ancient demon, one of the Kosmokrates Solomon encountered back in the olden days. Enenuth and five of his followers deliberately separated from the rest of the horde in the Palace.

Enenuth is interested in one spirit in particular. John Winchester. Years ago Winchester was the hunter who sent him straight back to hell after Enenuth left a trail of burned out, broken vessels and dead bodies up in Wisconsin.

_Can't wait to see you again, Johnny boy. You never write, you never call. That hurts my feelings. _

The other five spirits and the reaper will serve as vessels for the rest of his group, but there's one in particular that none of them will touch. The blonde woman dreams of that Death Horseman; she's linked to him somehow. Even in her sleep she shines brightly with the connection. Enenuth felt Alastair's death at Treasure Island, along with the others. The woman is useless as a vessel, but as a plaything? Ahh, there might be possibilities in that regard.

One of heaven's doves flies through the wall space, headfirst into the wall. The Devil's Trap on the other side weakens. Another dove joins the first in a flurry of white feathers, then a third, and a fourth.

Enenuth can hardly contain his delight. It's so good to have friends in high places.

* * *

Lillith screams. _"Who dares! Who?"_

She knows the answer. At least, she _thinks_ she does.

Some stupid, foolish son of Adam in this herd of misbegotten meat has finally gotten his nerve up to play the big damn hero. He's strong, too, judging by the feel of him. She's never been manhandled like this before, never in her immortal life. She knows she's lost a step recently, but that was because of that damn vair lopin parasite Alastair tricked her into eating. She's fine now. At least, she thinks she is.

All Lillith can think of is tearing this bastard limb from limb, and then eating the remains. Hero flesh, no matter what the sex or age, can be just as sweet and tender as any fresh-faced child's. It's the only exception she makes regarding adult food.

Her senses are overwhelmed and dulled by bloodlust and hunger. Lillith's stomach growls loudly; long thick strings of yellow saliva drip from the corners of her mouth.

She's no longer interested in killing the wide-eyed humans in front of her. The red-haired reporter digs her fingernails into the meat of the cameraman's shoulder. Lillith's nostrils flare as she scents a new, disgusting scent. Ahhh….the fat male has soiled himself.

And just as suddenly, the hero lets her go. Blood slicked lips skin away from her teeth in a savage, toothy grin. Putting his hands on her in the first place is the last, _worst_ mistake this insolent meat bastard will ever make in _this_ life.

Her back humps like a Halloween cat as she spins around. Her large almond shaped eyes flare white hot.

Lillith sees spiky dark blond hair, wide green eyes. Black clothes. Dressed in black. She blinks, and the image is gone.

She cocks her head to one side, and her nostrils flare wide as she scents the air. There's only the unreaped ones in that direction. No one else.

_No, _her senses tell her._ You saw him because you wanted to see him, you silly bitch._

_Then who held me back? _

Lillith doesn't have an answer.

* * *

The rubber eyepiece of his camera fits snug against Beeson's right eye. He hears Gamble actually gulp as the man in black disappears.

"He…he left us?" she mutters. Behind her, the crowd falls silent.

Beeson doesn't answer. He's focused on the monster bitch. There's nothing else in his world but her.

* * *

Circe stares at the image of Treasure Island. The emotion she feels is actually one of disappointment. Winchester seemed like he was made of sterner stuff. The man behind the legend has feet of clay. Pity.

_Now. Which one shall I kill first? _

_Ah. The fifth Horseman. The boy._

She gestures towards the patch of ice that holds Sam Winchester's image.

So far, so good.

Sam uses his power to plump the dead leeches up. They look normal enough, but a quarter of them are dead inside. Castiel hasn't stopped beating him, so Sam knows the angel hasn't tipped to the trick.

Unseen fingers encircle his heart like a freezes. His eyes widen as he recognizes the witch's touch.

Circe.

He can't break free of the leeches. He's still too weak. Sam's head fills with the harsh and rapid roar of his breathing and the the thunder of his heartbeat, and he knows his life can be measured by the number of beats left to him.

Circe's grip on his heart tightens.

_No…_Sam thinks to himself._ Not like this…not like this…_

* * *

An evol cliffie? Darn straight. Next chapter? Next week. There's plenty of death and undeath in Vegas.


	62. Chapter 62

_**A/N: **_"No timebo mala" (I will fear no evil) is the inscription on the special Colt.

_**Soundtrack for this chapter: **__Time Has Come Today_ – The Chambers Brothers

* * *

_**Chapter 62**_

**_12:06:35_**

Suite 5A – The Imperial Palace

Mary's quiet now. She sleeps curled up on her side, a slight smile on her face. She was connected to Dean, and now she's quiet. John doesn't have a clue what this means. He wants nothing more than to climb on the bed behind her, to hold her and to comfort her.

He can't. He and the others check the salt lines at the doors and windows. The Devil's Traps on the floors and the walls look secure. John glances up at the traps on the ceiling, and for just a brief moment he's pretty damned impressed.

It's amazing how fast a person can move when their ass is on the line.

They found enough salt on the room service trays, and a package of four black magic markers in the desk in the suite. That's a decent break. The way Tessa explained it, that was all pure dumb luck.

The room's secure, and John should feel good about that at least, but he doesn't. There's a hard, tight ball in the pit of his stomach, getting bigger and heavier all the time. That bad feeling he had before lingers, and he can't shake it. It's the same feeling he had over in 'Nam, the exact same feeling he had during hunts that went horribly, suddenly south.

Like now.

Darkness flows out of the far wall. Caleb is overtaken first, and then in quick succession the Campbells are overwhelmed, followed by Tessa and Pastor Jim.

John throws his body over Mary. He breathes in the darkness and it laughs as it swallows him up.

**_12:07:10_**

Abaddon the Fallen opens his eyes.

He lifts his head. A shower of pale, squirming maggots rains down from the fissures around his eyes, nose and mouth. Those large black eyes of his go to slits as he stares up at the cracked earth over his head.

The boy. His little brother in Death. He's come back?

Abaddon would never admit it, but the emotion that rises in his bony, maggot filled breast is one that's most foreign to him. He feels hope.

**_12:07:13_**

Ellen Harvelle doesn't think. If she did she'd run screaming in the other direction. She sees the cat woman go down underneath two of the ugliest fugs she's ever seen in life _(My God, the way they look hurts my eyes hurts my mind-)_ but along with the fear what rises up in Ellen is an all consuming rage.

She crosses the distance to the back door in two strides, and the sound that rises in her throat is low and threatening. She snarls as she throws open the door and shoulders her rifle. Bobby moves to back her play.

"Get the hell away from her, you sonsofbitches!" Ellen roars.

The lead hound smirks at her as she and Bobby open fire, but in the next moment that grin turns to shock and agonized yelps of pain.

Ellen smirks back at the damn hounds. The loads in the rifles at the Roadhouse are normal, lead shot, but one month ago Father Elbert Canady blessed all the ammo and all the weapons, at Ellen's request.

Jo and Ash bring up the rear and open fire.

**_12:07:20_**

The human survivors at Treasure Island are stunned.

"He left us…"

"Holy shit, he left us…"

At the rear of the crowd people turn and push uselessly against Lillith's shield.

Someone else babbles over and over again "Oh my God, oh my God."

Dean would have rolled his eyes at _that_ one.

**_12:07:23_**

The hellhounds jerk back. They look confused, bewildered. They turn their blunt snouts up to the sky and howl, a queer wavering sound that sounds just as unnatural as they look.

The lead hound snaps its head up out of the grass, releases its jaws, and the cat woman is suddenly airborne, eyes closed, limp.

**_12:07:25_**

The crowd noises die down. Lillith stares into space, bewildered, confused.

How long, Gamble thinks to herself, how long before this crazy bitch starts killing again?

**12:07:30**

Bastet crashes against the side of the dumpster so hard the metal container rocks back and forth on its wheels and the front panel is dented with an impression of her body.

The bitemark in her right thigh is deep enough to expose the flash of white bone.

Ellen, Jo, and Ash fan out in front as Bobby tugs the unconscious goddess in a quick rough fireman's carry across his shoulders. He backs into the Roadhouse and the others follow, firing as they go.

**_12:07:41_**

Sam Winchester's heartbeat throbs fast and somehow defiant against Circe's fingertips. She has no desire to make this quick and merciful. The boy will have a look of agony on his face when his older brother finds him. Circe will make sure of that.

She squeezes Sam's heart. The youngest Winchester writhes in agony.

Slowly…

Slow…

**_12:07:42_**

Lillith's smile stretches from ear to ear.

She remembers now. Remembers the bit of magic she'd cast into her second handprint, remembers how much of herself she put into that. If he touches her, he's lost.

Her claws grow long as railroad spikes.

**_12:07:44_**

Dean appears. He glows bright as a new penny.

**_12:07:45_**

_Well, well,_ Circe thinks. _Maybe we'll have a show after all._

She loosens her hold, then brushes the surface of Sam's heart with her cold fingertips. The boy shudders at her touch, but he breathes easier now.

There's no need to rush. She wants to see how this is going to play out.

**_12:07:46_**

"Hullo, sweetness," Lillith purrs. She sees her death in Dean's lovely multicolored eyes.

Dean closes and flexes his gloved left hand, and when his fingers open he holds the Spear of Destiny by its short wooden shaft.

Lillith is _not_ impressed.

She rushes forward. Dean back pedals, lashes out with the Spear.

The blade of the Spear connects with Lillith's right wrist. Bright sparks and black ash fly up into the air.

Lillith stares dully at her right hand. It's not attached to her arm anymore. Her hand lies on the pavement, fingers jerking and twitching helplessly like a scorpion flipped over on its back.

Lillith throws back her head and screeches. People in the crowd nearest her suffer headaches and nose bleeds. She grows in size. Her leathery skin creaks as her muscles and bones ripple and lengthen. She's seven feet tall again, massive, broad-shouldered. Thick knobs push out from the top of her shoulders, and from the base of her spine. The protrusions elongate into tentacles. The ends of the feelers shape themselves into five fingered hands tipped with wickedly curved claws.

She ignores her severed hand, and the humans nearby. The man in black has her complete attention.

Lillith rushes forward, and this time Dean doesn't retreat. He stands his ground and they close on each other. Dean has his one good left arm and the Spear. Lillith's armed. Eight times. They move so fast, so smoothly, midnight black blurs into dark blue. Her skin sparks and ash rises up into the air as she's hit with the Spear. Dean's skin bruises and turns pale when Lillith claws him. The Spear catches the dim light of the overhead street lights; feelers and claws whicker through the air in response, whipping and snapping in the air around Dean's head and shoulders.

Copper light flashes and Dean disappears.

**12:07:58**

Lillith's severed right hand finally turns itself over and rises up on its fingertips. The hand runs all over the sidewalk. The humans squeal and scatter when it runs through the crowd.

_Stupid thing._ Lillith rolls her eyes. Sometimes her body parts act like that, always underfoot.

"Over here," she snaps, and the hand follows the sound of her voice. It runs up her leg, then her thigh, and sinks beneath her sink. A large lump travels underneath Lillith's skin, up her chest, down her shoulder, her arm, then her stump.

Her right hand pushes up into the open air. Lillith wriggles her fingers, pleased. The scars all over her body sting, but she's felt worse. Her head is clearer now.

She remembers. He was the one who held her back before. Playing the hero, as usual, forsaking what and who he really is. Caring for these bags of meat, when he should be killing them.

Poor Dean. Every time he touches her, her hold over him gets stronger.

She knows the object of her affection hasn't gone very far.

Lillith spreads all her arms wide and laughs. "Come here, Dean. I want to hug you."

**_12:08.02_**

Sam closes his eyes. He's barely aware of the pounding against his body. It's faint, distant, like it's happening to someone else. Castiel is just as enthusiastic as ever.

Sam takes a deep breath, and then another.

Circe tried to kill him. She was killing him. And then she stopped.

_It's Dean,_ Sam thinks to himself. _I know it. He stopped her somehow…._

**_12:08:04_**

Dean nearly faceplants into the ground in the pathway. At the last moment he steadies himself with his stump and his left hand.

The Spear clatters to the ground beside him. He's on his knees and his right leg doesn't want to cooperate. It's cold and numb, and the rest of him doesn't feel much better. He breathes in and out rapidly, tastes salt hot and dry in his mouth and throat. His heart slams against his rib cage like a wild, panicked thing as he stares at the cold grey ground beneath him.

_Sonofabitch…I can't do this…I can't…._

He's failed again. Just like he always has. He tried, and he failed. He stayed until he couldn't take being in her presence anymore, and then he left.

Dean raises his left hand. His glove disappears and his hand shakes as he stares at the long white slash marks that stripe his tan freckled skin. He knows that the rest of his body is marked too.

He wants to go to Lillith, wants to kneel at her feet, beg her forgiveness. The joined voice, of him and her, babbles inside his head like a little lost kid. He hit her, he hurt her, she's going to be mad at him, she might even leave him….

…_.'m sorry…'m sorry…_

"Shut up," Dean grates out loud. He slams his palm against the ground hard enough to send a jolt through his body. "Shut the fuck up!"

There's something else that he's forgotten, something just out of reach. He feels light headed, spaced out, and damn it, he can't think of what he's forgotten. He's never felt so damn useless in his entire life.

He senses Samirah nearby at Circus Circus. She watches him intently, doesn't move, doesn't say anything, and that speaks volumes to him.

She trusts him, even now. Even like this, and the simple fact that she trusts him makes him uneasy.

Dean stares down at the Spear of Destiny.

"Dean…please…"

Sam.

"…don't leave me…don't…"

Sam took care of him out there in the desert, when Uriel stabbed him with the Spear.

"Dean, please…please…come back to me, all right?"

The desperation in Sam's voice makes Dean grimace.

He can still hear the joined voice. It's loud.

…_sorry…please, 'm sorry…._

Sam's voice is louder. _"You can't leave me alone like this, you hear me? You can't."_

Dean remembers the way Sam and Samirah fussed at each other out there, when he was hurt. They were worried. About him.

That was something he never meant to put either of them through. He takes care of them. Not the other way around.

His connection to Samirah is just as solid as it's ever been.

_I'm with you. I'm always with you. _

The black horse nods calmly, quietly._ Now go kick her ass._

A pinprick of copper fire flares up in Dean's eyes. He wills his glove back on as he picks up the Spear again.

**_12:08:39_**

Circe pulls back. She releases her grip on Sam's heart.

She can feel something building in the air up there in that Treasure Island place. It's ancient rage and new vengeance, powerful and all consuming, eternal Horseman and flawed human.

**_12:08:40_**

The wind picks up, a thick band of moving air, hot and dry, swirls around Lillith in a wave of heat shimmer. She's immediately encased in a bubble of superheated air. The pavement underneath her clawed feet cracks and bubbles.

Dean reappears on Lillith's left.

He doesn't glow, he blazes, bright and fierce. The light is all around him, shines through him, so brightly that the humans shield their eyes He's at Lillith's back, then her side, then in front of her again, faster than a heartbeat, as quick as the blink of an eye. Silver flashes in the air as he slashes at her with the Spear. The blade glows red, surrounded by a haze of heat shimmer.

Lillith burns where ever he strikes her with the Spear. The air is filled with clouds of bright orange sparks. She twists and turns to face him. Dean creates pathways all around her, right in her own personal space, moving, dodging in and out of this reality.

At **_12:09:00_** everything goes south.

Lillith roars. "ENOUGH!"

She turns inside her own skin, like a cat, just as Dean reappears on her right side. Several of her limbs elongate into long whips that wrap around Dean's waist.

Her other limbs push through her skin, and wrap themselves around Dean's head, neck and shoulders.

Dean's glow immediately fades to white. His back arches painfully. His fingers jerks open and the Spear falls to the ground.

He's lifted off his feet and slammed backwards. The air pulses with the blow. The humans scatter, scrambling out of the way as he's flung backwards into Lillith's shield, then slides slowly to the ground on his knees.

Dean's skin and hair color fades, the blackness of his clothes fades to white.

Lillith smiles. "That's better. Much better."

* * *

Samirah tosses her head angrily. Forget what he asked her. She can't, she _won't_ stand by and allow this to happen-

_Not yet…_

_Samirah…. stay back…_

* * *

Lillith_ changes_ as she walks towards him. A swirl of white satin, perfect pale skin. She's beautiful again, picture perfect, a vision of blonde loveliness.

The crowd murmurs and then parts to let her pass. Even with all they've seen her do, even after seeing what lies beneath, the men want her, and the women want to be her. Lillith preens under all that attention. She tosses her hair, puts an extra sway in her hips as she walks. When she reaches Dean she leans down, fists the front of his greatcoat, then pulls him effortlessly up onto his feet.

"All that power, and that rage," Lillith purrs as she cards his whitish blonde hair with her slim cold fingers. "And it didn't work, darling. None of it did. And do you know why?"

Dean stares dully at her. He's weakened, pale and beautiful, exactly the way she likes him.

"You _want _me. You _need _me. You always have, and you always will." She cups the side of his face with her hand. "You held yourself back because you'll never hurt me, not really, and we both know that."

Dean leans into Lillith's touch. That gesture of submission brings a smile to her lips.

"It's all right. I forgive you, but I'm going to have to teach you a lesson, darling. You need to learn your place. I've decided I don't need the others, not even that nag of yours, so I'm going to take them from you. They'll die slow, and they'll die screaming. You're going to watch as I tear them limb from limb, pull their heads and legs off one by one. That will be your fault. You made me do it."

"Nuh…no…"

"What?" Lillith frowns darkly at him. The blood red nails of her left hand grow long and wicked sharp. When she moves her hand is a blur of motion. Lillith rakes her claws across the left side of Dean's face, leaves five perfectly spaced stripes from his cheekbone down to his chin. It's as good a place as any, the left side of his face, a perfect balance to the scars around his right eye. She didn't want to mark him up, but this defiance is becoming tiresome.

Dean doesn't flinch. He doesn't react. His eyes go out of focus. He stares at her, _through_ her, at something only he can see.

"No timebo mala…" Dean whispers roughly.

Lillith isn't concerned. There's no fire in those faded green eyes of his. No copper, no gold.

"And what does that _mean_, dear?"

Dean lifts his head slightly as his eyes finally focus on her. "I will fear no evil."

Something hard smashes into Lillith's face, hard enough to make her head rock back. Everything flares golden in her sight. She yelps in surprise, takes a few stumble steps backwards.

Dean sways on his feet. He looks tired, defeated.

"You hit me," Lillith says wonderingly. She fingers that perfect nose of hers, stares at her fingertips. No blood.

Lillith laughs, nervous and uncertain.

She narrows her eyes as she stares at Dean's right arm. Her sultry voice strengthens, drips with mock pity. "You hit me with your stump. Dean dear, that's pathetic."

Blood red lips skin back from pointed, needle-like teeth. "That's the last time you will _ever_ put your hands on me like that again."

Dean winks at her. His right eye gleams golden. "You got that right, bitch." He raises his right arm, wiggles the fingers of his hand at her.

Lillith sees shifting colors of gold, pale and dark.

Her eyes widen. _His hand….the bastard has his right hand back-_

Lillith's nose blackens, melts like a candle in a blast furnace. The center of her face collapses, right down to the bone. Her skin is eaten away in a circle that's the approximate diameter of Dean's closed fist. The power of the Colt burns bright and fierce as it strips away first her outer skin, and then sinks deep inside her, eagerly consuming her bones. She claws at her throat, but flesh and bone crumble into black ash and all she can do is grunt.

Rays of pale gold light burst forth from her eyes, her ears, nose and mouth. Sparks and fine black ash float and swirl in the air all around her, and she realizes she's looking at bits and pieces of her own body. Her skin shines from the fire within, the delicate cage of her ribs stands out in dark relief before her bones snap and crackle like dry kindling.

_This isn't happening!_ Lillith shrieks silently inside her head. She can't hold onto the thought. There are too many holes in her bony skull, and her thoughts swirl in the air around her, no longer white, just bits of charred bone and grey matter.

_He loves me…_

Lillith comes undone. The last thing she sees is Dean's face, pale and inhumanly handsome, the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a quiet smile.

She slides into oblivion with this last thought: _He loves me not…_

* * *

Next: Dean versus Abaddon, Samirah meets Mary Winchester, and the Horsemen bust loose.


	63. Chapter 63

**A/N:**_ Spoiler Alert – In the Beginning_

* * *

**Chapter 63**

The archangel Michael floats downwards, quietly. He looks like nothing more than a slight displacement of air above Caesar's Palace, down the Strip from the Mirage. Ordinarily Michael would arrive as a pillar of fire, but he has no intention of giving Hell any advance warning.

High above the sky over Las Vegas, the Host of Heaven waits quietly. They will not move until Michael gives the word.

God's Perfect Warrior crouches unseen on the rooftop. He folds his wings around himself, and waits.

* * *

"Mary? Wakey-wakey, sweetheart…"

John.

He sounds like he's laughing and yelling angrily at the same time. His voice raises gooseflesh on Mary's arms. She keeps her eyes closed, her body limp.

_John's not alone in there. Something else is driving. _

Mary doesn't respond, not even when rough hands move slowly, carelessly over her back and hips.

_Stay still. Don't move. Don't._

"Come on now, darlin'." She almost cringes at the inhuman leer in that familar voice. "Don't be like that."

Hot breath scorches the shell of her right ear. The stench of sulfur is so strong it nearly takes her breath away.

"Fine. Be that way. I think you're forgetting something, though. You're spirits, right? You, your folks, John boy and those other three idiots. But in _this_ place" (and she can hear the grin in that voice, too wide and maliciously gleeful) "you can still hurt. I mean real physical pain. I can see a whole lot of _that_ in your future. Not _your _pain, though. You won't care if we hurt _you_, but what about your _family_, huh?"

_Oh Jesus, no…_

"How about we have dear old Daddy saw through his neck with a piece of window glass? I can play soccer with his head. Score!"

Mary hears glass break. _One of the windows_, and the thought sends a thrill of cold terror down her spine.

Glass crunches, and she hears her father's voice, gruff, inhuman: "This piece good enough?"

"Yeah," the John thing replies. Even with her eyes closed she feels its oily black stare against her skin.

_Don't give in. Don't open your eyes…_

"Hold off on that, will ya? She's tough. Mary? Where was I? Oh, yeah!

Momma can bash her brains out against the wall. Instant re-decorating. Martha Stewart would eat her heart out. Oh, oh! I know! How's _this_ for a blast from the past? Remember when Azazel broke John's neck? I can do that to Winchester over and over again, but wait a minute, that's so last century!"

_Shut up. Shut the hell up-_

"Don't worry your pretty little head over it, though. I can get creative. Make him castrate himself. With his teeth and bare hands. How'd _that_ be?"

Fingers gently stroke the hair at the back of her neck, and Mary still doesn't move. "Think about it, sweetness, but don't take too long. You're really hurting my feelings by acting this way. I might decide to act out, y'know? I'm really a sensitive fella at heart."

Mary opens her eyes.

The demon Enenuth's blackness shines brightly in John's eyes. It smiles thinly. "That's better."

* * *

All that remains of Lillith, first wife of Adam, "the beautiful maiden", otherwise known as Lamashtû, Lilitû, Gallû and Alû (she had many many names), is a handful of fine black ash and charred bone that swirls lazily upward into the murky air.

Cause and effect. One thing leads to another, and another.

Lillith's shield around Treasure Island vanishes.

That would appear to be a good thing, but it's not. The problem is that Lillith's shield extended down below street level, and it was the only thing holding the gas lines in place underground.

One thing leads to another.

And another.

Down in the dark Abaddon the Fallen chuckles and slams his massive hands against the floor of his cavern. The shock wave from the tremor travels upward.

The gas lines creak and groan, minutes from their breaking point.

* * *

_Little brother,_ the Fallen sounds absolutely gleeful. _You came back._

Even though the boy is pale and bloodied, Abaddon senses the power inside him. That awareness goes both ways. The Horseman clenches that firefly right hand of his into a fist.

_Don't get too comfortable, you sonofabitch. You're next._

_We'll see. I like your school boy heroics. _

Abaddon sits back. He closes his eyes, tilts his massive pale skull towards the roof of the cavern. The long spiny black feathers of his wings lifts up, a shudder runs through his body. A low buzzing sound echoes through the darkness of the pit, faint at first, then louder.

The Fallen comes undone, but in a much different way than Lillith did. His consciousness is intact, but his body separates into millions of winged insects. The swarm that emerges from his skull and body is bone white. His wings divide into black bugs. Abaddon's body shrinks to nothing, then the swarms dip and turn gracefully in the dead air.

The seal is broken, and the cracks in the earth are a direct pipeline to the city called Las Vegas.

Abaddon laughs as he surges into the cracks in the earth, and his laughter sounds like screaming.

* * *

Samirah rears up on her hind legs and paws at the dark sky above.

_Come on, girl._

* * *

The winds respond to Dean's silent command. Lillith's ashes are carried aloft, and soon she'll be scattered to all corners of the earth.

_Good riddance._

There's no trace of that other voice inside his head, which in and of itself is pretty damn good. That voice whined like a total bitch.

Dean smirks to himself as he stares down at his right hand. It came back. Like a bad penny, like that cat in that dumb nursery rhyme Sammy loved when he was a little kid. Dean clenches his fist even tighter, and the pale and dark gold colors shift and flare. He can feel the muscles and tendons. He didn't know why or how he knew his hand would come back. He just knew.

Damn. He hasn't felt this good, _really_ good, in a long damn time.

Gamble grips Beeson's left shoulder and squeezes. "His face," she whispers. "Get a close-up of his face."

Beeson nods and tilts the camera up slightly to get the shot.

_God, he's beautiful bloody like that. It suits him. _The woman's thought makes Dean turn in her direction and scowl. He cocks his head slightly to one side.

"Lady, you're a damn freak, you know that?" he rumbles. "And not in a good way, either."

Gamble's smile fires up again, all plastic and fake this time. But she doesn't come any closer, and neither does Beeson.

Dean absentmindedly reaches up to rub at his right shoulder. Lillith's handprint itches. His skin tingles from head to toe. The sensation is concentrated on his throat, the left side of his face, his right shoulder, and his right leg.

The bones of his right leg knit together. It's not altogether unpleasant. The stripes on his left cheek close up and smooth out. Lillith's small handprint on his right shoulder disappears. The larger one on his throat vanishes.

Dean looks down at himself, sees his white clothing darken to black.

Huh. Lillith's gone, so her magic no longer has her will to sustain it.

Dean wills his glove away and stares at his left hand. He sees tan freckled skin. His power hums smoothly underneath the lean muscles of his skin.

Samirah steps out of thin air, darkly elegant, almost dainty in her motion. She's tacked up now, and she circles Dean, stretches out her neck and whickers at him. Dean smiles as he turns to face her. His eyes burn like twin suns, and that fearsome aspect only emphasizes his Otherness.

His horse thrusts that sleek chiseled head of hers into his hands, and Dean rubs her nose gently with his left. "Hey, you," he whispers softly.

The black rumbles contentedly. She walks around him in a tight circle, and Dean moves with her. He gloves up his left hand again, then gathers the reins as he swings into the saddle in one smooth motion. Dean raises his right hand, then summons the Spear of Destiny with a simple gesture. It re-appears in his hand in a burst of copper light. His right hand and the Spear glow hotly with the power of the Colt.

He's showing off, of course, for Circe, for Heaven and Hell, for any damn body who's watching.

He's not Lillith's bitch anymore. He's not a punk or a weakling. The Horseman aspect rises up around him, through him, proud and utterly ancient, copper and bluish white lightning reflected in the air around horse and rider, highlighting the blackness of his clothing and the ebony sleekness of her coat.

The heat is fierce; static electricity prickles the skin and hair of the humans nearby until it's quite painful. The crowd shrinks back.

_I am Death. Look upon me, O world, and despair._

The ground shakes.

_"Time to go to work,"_ Dean rumbles. His voice vibrates forcefully, and Samirah's eyes flash in response.

They turn towards the Treasure Island lagoon. The pirate ship rides low in the water. Thick ribbons of vapor rise up, and the ship rides even lower. The water level is dropping. The stench of ozone hangs over the Vegas strip.

The timbers creak, and the masts crack and splinter like thick ice breaking in winter. A large crack stitches up the middle of the boat; it breaks in two wearily, and the sound of breaking wood resembles a drawn out moan. The two halves sink underneath the haze in less than a minute.

The rhythm of the ground shaking is like a heartbeat, the pulse of something horrible being born.

Despite everything else, despite the ground shaking and the concrete splitting underneath their feet, the humans edge closer to Dean and Samirah, and Dean feels a flash of annoyance.

They should be running away instead.

_"Shield's down. Why the hell are you still here?"_

No one answers.

Samirah wants to run, so Dean lets her.

He could evac the humans, 'port them out, just like he did with the others, but he doesn't. There's no safe place anywhere. At least, that's what Dean tells himself. He doesn't realize that the song of his power has caused a disconnect in him. He's drifted away from being human. Being human won't win this thing, and he has to, he's got to win, for Sam, Rika, Tiesen and Chale. If these humans don't have sense enough to run, well, that's their problem.

_Put on a show for us._ That's what that Circe bitch said.

Samirah stretches into a run, unaffected by the quake. Her hooves touch the air six inches above the ground, not the ground itself.

The lagoon at Treasure Island is completely obscured by smoke and steam. The Mirage hotel and the water volcano are no longer visible. The steam roars and hisses like a live thing as it pulses skyward.

Samirah charges up to the railing. She stretches her neck up, tucks her forelegs underneath her. As she leaps over Dean leans backwards in the saddle, and horse and rider disappear into the swirling white-out.

* * *

"Come on!" Gamble yells, and it doesn't take much for Beeson to shoulder his camera and run after her. They're not alone. Half of the crowd suddenly decides that they have other places to go and people to see. Those folks run like hell in the other direction, but a surprising number of stalwart souls run _towards _the lagoon.

Many of them have their cell phones out.

Beeson and Gamble reach the railing first. The blood stench is so bad Gamble breathes through her mouth. Beeson does the same but he never stops filming.

He leans over, points his camera downward, as others around him crowd the railing and point and click with their cells. There's not much to see at first, just swirling steam and smoke and that godawful noise that sounds like a pack of hyenas with the volume control dialed all the way up.

The steam shifts, and for a moment Beeson sees huge black eyes the size of a VW Bug.

And teeth. Rows and rows of them.

It looks like this thing is chewing on something.

Beeson jerks back with a startled cry, as do the others, but he never stops filming.

The ground rises up and then drops six inches, a jolt that knocks everyone down like bowling pins. Beeson holds onto his camera, and as luck would have it his lens is pointing skyward. He tracks movement with his camera.

Something black and on fire streaks upward out of the mist.

Beeson loses the shot while he gets to his feet. Concrete cracks and crumbles behind him as something hits the ground with considerable force. Despite the smaller mini-quake he shoulders his camera and turns as Gamble and the others struggle to their feet. He stares through the viewfinder and right then and there he knows with cold certainty that they are all screwed.

It's the Horseman, that Dean Winchester. Beeson can't tell if he's alive or dead, only that he's facing the lagoon, lying still and quiet in the middle of a crater that's four inches deep. Winchester's eyes are closed and flames flicker in his hair and the folds of his clothing. That weird looking knife or spear he used on the monster woman is nearby, embedded halfway out of the ground.

"What the hell was that other one?" Beeson grates out.

Gamble shakes her head. "I don't know, but I think that was the horse."

Famous last words.

The air around them blazes a brilliant yellow as bright as the noonday sun. There's no sound, just the sensation of everything being ripped away and blown apart as the gas lines finally give way.

Gamble loses her head in the explosion. Beeson's spared that; his camera shields his head and neck, but he's cut in half. His legs fly in one direction, and his upper torso is tossed in the other direction.

The explosions cascade down the Strip, a chain of bright soundless blossoms, raining dismemberment and terror down on everyone unfortunate enough to be caught in outside. The lucky ones, the ones Lillith didn't rend with her bare hands, all suffer the same fate.

Poetic irony is a purebred bitch.

None of them truly die, of course. They're trapped inside their own heads, screaming, and the reapers never come.

* * *

"Hell of a show so far," Baal says with a grin.

In the human world above Hell's throne room would probably be compared to a luxury suite at a sports stadium somewhere. The vision wall is huge, stretching from floor to ceiling on the longest wall. The lords and Presidents of Hell sit or crouch on stone pedestals all around the room, and servants slip quietly among their betters, offering refreshments.

All eyes in the throne room turn to Lucifer. He has their full attention now.

Even Asmodeus quiets himself. The damned soul he holds in his claws has long stopped squealing for help; it's rather hard to scream with no lungs.

"Such a shame about Lillith," Lucifer murmurs softly as he leans forward. He doesn't really think that. This is Hell, after all, and he never misses a chance to be deceitful.

The scion of Hell sits back against the smooth red veined marble of his black throne. "Are the troops ready?"

Amon pads forward, then bows respectfully. The great wolf lowers his serpent's tail as a gesture of respect. "Yes, m'lord."

Lucifer smiles warmly. "Release the hordes."

* * *

Abaddon rises from the Pit.

* * *

He's seen moonrise lots of times, but never like this.

_Moon's got teeth,_ Dean thinks dully to himself.

It sees him.

The skin around those huge shiny black eyes crinkles in amusement. That gigantic pale face splits in two, baring row upon row of needle sharp teeth.

_Little brother,_ the moon says, smiling. _Did I break you?_

Dean can't understand why his legs don't work. He can't get up. His head hurts, and he doesn't remember why.

* * *

TBC next week

_**A/N:**__ I am Death. Look upon me O world and despair – Paraphrased from Percy Bysshe Shelley's poem about _Ozymandias:

And on the pedestal these words appear:_  
_My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:_  
_Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!_  
_Nothing beside remains: round the decay_  
_Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,_  
_The lone and level sands stretch far away.

— _**Percy Bysshe Shelley**__, _Ozymandias


	64. Chapter 64

_**A/N: **_Since I don't have to worry about a special effects budget, I intend to show you the true meaning of the phrase "just when you think it can't get any worse…"

_**Soundtrack: **Fire on High_ – Electric Light Orchestra

* * *

**Chapter 64**

John Winchester's consciousness resembles a small white speck, buzzing and tapping at the bony cage of his skull. The rest of his spirit body is filled with swirling darkness. He's a passenger in his own body, trapped inside his head. The demon wants him to _see_ everything, _feel _everything, and he can't do a damn thing about any of it.

_Oh, we're gonna have some fun now, John boy. A lot of fun, _Enenuth hisses cheerfully. _Fine looking bitch you got there. I can see why Azazel liked her. I bet she's a screamer. _

Mary sits upright on the bed now, and _no, hell no,_ John rages to himself, _this isn't happening, I can't let it-_

The demon walks John's body over and sits him down beside her. It runs John's fingers over Mary's arm. She glares at him and jerks away.

Mary's got her game face on, intense and determined, and that tugs at John's heart a little; Dean's worn that same expression many times. The demon inside Samuel Campbell winks at her and pretends to cut his vessel's throat with the long shard of glass. Mary doesn't waver, but John knows she's good for maybe another minute or two, tops, until they start carving on him, her parents, or Caleb or Jim.

Tessa has black eyes now. A part of John's mind, the oddly detached, calm part, thinks that a reaper possessed by a demon has to be a first.

The knock on the door is loud and persistent. The demon inside Caleb walks him over to the door and opens it up.

It's Ao-kuang, the manager of the Imperial Palace. He's just as black-eyed as the rest.

_Damn._ John curses to himself, and the demon giggles.

Behind Ao-kuang, in the hallway, huge metallic green and red scales curl and twist upon themselves. John recognizes the dragons from the mural in the lobby.

Try as he might to stop it, John's mouth stretches into a too wide grin as he turns towards Ao-kuang. "Well, if it isn't our gracious host. Nice place you got here."

Ao-kuang hefts his battle ax, furrows his broad brow. His eyes sweep the room and then go back to notJohn's black eyes. "What is _this_?"

"Sorry. My name's Enenuth," the fiend laughs. "I got first dibs on this meatsuit. Me and Johnny here got some catching up to do."

"I was told he was mine," Ao-kuang says stiffly.

_What the hell? I never saw your scaly ass before today-_

"Well, you were told wrong. Typical," Enenuth smirks. "The right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. Tell you what, sport, I'm feeling generous. You can have what's left of John boy after I finish. If I leave anything, that is."

"Hmph." The dragon is clearly not pleased.

A flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye draws the demon's attention to the window. John sees blackness and flames. Whatever this is coming in so fast it's a blur. There's no time for anything else.

"Oh…my…God…" Mary whispers.

The incoming object hits, and the Imperial Palace shakes. The building sways from side to side as the windows explode inward in a silver shower of broken pane glass and twisted metal. Enenuth grabs at her _(sonofabitch, get your hands off her!)_, but Mary twists out of his grip and dives underneath the bed she'd lain on moments before.

The satisfaction John feels lasts for less than a second.

The building sways as the unidentified object slams into the far wall with a loud thundering boom. The room fills with black smoke, dust and a silvery spray of window glass.

John slams backward into the wall, and for a moment he supposes that it's a good thing that he's not alive. His mind plays tricks on him, imagining that he's still flesh and bone. He could swear he hears the quick bright snap of bone as the walls craters at his back. Slivers of concrete and glass prick his skin, and his nose, mouth and throat are clogged with dust and smoke.

Enenuth's stopped laughing inside his head. That's one good thing.

That's about the only good thing.

The shaking of the building goes on and one. When the smoke clears and the dust settles John sees that the entire far wall is gone. The air that wafts in smells of sulfur. Mary's bed has been tossed into the opposite corner, upside down, with the metal bed frame on top of the mattress. The furniture in the room has been reduced to kindling, and patches of yellow flame bloom here and there on the now grimy beige carpet. Broken glass is everywhere.

He sees the Campbells and the rest on the floor, knocked down like bowling pins. They seem none the less worse for wear, as they struggle to their feet. John curses to himself as he sees they are all still black-eyed.

The dragons out in the hallway hiss. He's not that familiar with those kinds of critters, but they sound like they feel threatened.

Something answers, a low rumble filled with rage.

If he had control over his face, John would narrow his eyes and frown. He's heard that sound before.

The smoke clears even more and John suddenly realizes that things have gotten much worse. He stares into the fiercest pair of copper bright eyes he's ever seen.

_Oh, shit._

It's Dean's horse. That huge black mare.

"You," the horse rumbles. It bares those large white teeth at him. Flames flicker here and there on that sleek black body, waves of dense, heavy heat and fury roll off the animal in waves.

She remembers him.

She remembers that John hunted her, back when all this started.

She remembers that day in the ER, years ago.

_Something huge and dark on four legs circled around the gurney Dean lay on. It passed through the doctors and nurses like dark smoke, tossing its head, snorting and rumbling._

_All the spit in John's mouth dried up instantly. That smoke thing was horse shaped. _

_Just like the fugly they were hunting._

_Dean's eyes blinked open, his normally green eyes tinted copper, new penny bright._

_"Get the hell away from my son, you bitch!" John roared, and the thing hissed in response._

John remembers that he stopped her that day. He pressed a protective amulet against Dean's chest. He always thought that did the trick, but it didn't. It couldn't. Touching Dean at the moment was the protection; the family connection kept the boy human, kept him safe.

From _her_.

The black's nostrils flare red. She stares intently at him, ears pinned back against her head. The carpet underneath her hooves bursts into flame as she paws at it with her left foreleg.

She remembers him, all right.

And it's clear from the murderous glint in her eyes that she intends to kill him.

* * *

People all over the world see Abaddon rise up out of the pit via streaming video on the internet and live feeds on television. A hush falls over the globe. Humanity takes one look and has this silent, collective thought: We are _sooo_ screwed.

…._.and there shall be destruction and darkness come upon Creation, and the Beast shall reign over the Earth._

The ground trembles as the Fallen places first one massive bony foot and then another on terra firma.

Abaddon expands and flexes his vast leathery wings. The spiny black feathers around his shoulders flutter and slither against one another, more serpentine than avian, and his bone white flesh casts a chilly pale glow in the darkness. Thousands of slimy white maggots crawl in and out of the pockmarks in his face and body. Black veins underneath the white bone of his skin plump up and pulsate. The two small vents between his eyes and mouth contract and expand eagerly as he scents the air.

He's the personification of all the nightmares humans have ever had; the boogeyman in the closet that gurgles in the dark, the thing underneath the bed that chitters excitedly when the lights go out.

Abaddon shows his jagged teeth to the world in a joyful grin. The skin around his sunken black eyes crinkles. He looks cheerful, as if he knows a wonderful joke, the last best joke in the whole wide world, and it's obvious he intends to share it with each and every human on earth.

Michael leans forward slightly. He has a birds' eye view, and he doesn't want to miss a thing. Winchester still hasn't moved, and that's a bit of a disappointment. He'd thought the Horseman was made of sterner stuff.

The world can burn. It _will_ burn, if he has anything to say about it. It's not that Michael wants the earth to die. It's just that he hates Dean Winchester more. If the Apocalypse happens, then the Horseman will have failed.

God choose Winchester to look after Creation. She choose _him_, not Michael, not her Good Son, Her Perfect Warrior. She entrusted the safety and the fate of All There Is to a stranger.

Mother's grown soft. That's the only explanation for all of this. She chose this mongrel Horseman over her own kin.

Sitting there with his wings folded around him like a blanket, Michael quietly watches the scene before him. Still no movement from Mother's babysitter, Her champion.

Pity. It's a shame when the man doesn't measure up to the legend.

* * *

_Ahhh, this smells glorious!_

After all those centuries in the pit, the smell of dark, dank earth clotted his lungs, dulled his senses. The bony cage of Abaddon's chest expands as he takes a deep breath. His black eyes momentarily go to slits, and then widen again. He likes the way the place smells now. The heavy stench of body fluids, burning plastic and singed flesh. He wouldn't have enjoyed the desert air in this place as it was before, no matter how polluted it might have been. The ground smokes and steams with sulfur, and the thin shrieks of the unreaped ones are a delightful counterpoint to the crumple and thump as sidewalks collapse and more gas lines give way. Fire blooms from underneath the streets, and the dark air glows red. It's a wonderful sight.

The Fallen cocks his head to one side as he hears the scrabble of claws on the hard packed earth underneath his feet.

The hordes of Hell are rising, and they'll be here soon. Angels hover in the clouds above, awaiting their clue.

He senses Michael nearby. That one is a surprise, all right, the one angel Abaddon never expected to visit him down in the pit.

"Do you want to win?" Michael said that day, and all Abaddon could do was nod.

Angels above, demons below. They'll all play their part.

Abaddon peers down at Dean Winchester.

Even this one.

He and his nag were a little too lively when he first swallowed them. The horse isn't here, but she doesn't matter. He'll have her too, in time. The Horseman looks weak. Helpless. Like a dried autumn leaf curled up on itself, or a tiny bug, broken, defeated, unable to rise again.

Best to tenderize him a little, then swallow him whole. They'll be One, then, One And The Same.

Abaddon raises his right foot.

* * *

Dean imagines himself rolling over onto his hands and knees, slowly pushing himself up, staggering upright. He imagines that, but his body doesn't respond.

The glow in Dean's eyes flickers as his power stutters underneath his skin. Connections inside him spark and fizzle. His muscles jerk and spasm uselessly instead. His skin, hair and clothes are slick with Abaddon's saliva.

He calls out her name inside his head _(SAMIRAH!)_ and gets absolutely no response.

All he can see is bright orange flame and scattered body parts, eyes bright with fear and hatred.

_You could have stopped this. This is all your fault._

A shadow falls over him. The ground shudders again, and Dean knows Abaddon is standing over him. He can see those massive cloven feet, but he can't even move his head slightly to take in the rest. The sonofabitch is huge, even bigger than he was before.

…_.get up…_

The air pressure above him shifts, becomes solid and heavy, tons of weight, and Dean's eyes widen in sudden panic. His head jerks backward as his eyes fill up with light.

_DAMN YOU, GET UP-_

* * *

The air twangs as an enormous burst of copper light flares beneath Abaddon's foot. The shockwave expands and shimmers upward and outward as it strikes with considerable force.

Abaddon stumbles backwards, off balance. His wings beat frantically at the air to keep him upright; he stumble-steps backwards to the outer edge of the Treasure Island lagoon. His bony heels hang in mid-air. For a long moment Abaddon teeters on the edge, arms flailing, his wings finally grabbing and catching dark air.

The energy collapses in on itself. It takes the form of a man,

a motionless silhouette crouched down, balanced easily on his heels, his left arm extended, palm down against the cracked pavement.

The Fallen jerks himself forward. He's in a weak position, and he knows it.

The copper light collapses in on itself, like a supernova in reverse, shifts into spiky dark blond hair, freckled skin, and torn black clothing.

His wings sweep through the air around him. Abaddon finally rights himself.

Dean Winchester stands up in one smooth motion, and the rips and tears in his clothing disappear. He stands relaxed and easy, both arms down at his sides.

Moss green eyes lock with sunken black ones.

The Fallen tenses himself for the flood of power he knows is coming. Abaddon fully expects the Horseman to immediately go on the attack. Lillith's demise was glorious, a violent snap of power that sent her entire essence spinning off into total oblivion.

Winchester just stands there. The look on his face can only be described as curiously blank, yet intense at the same time.

The maggots crawling in and out of Abaddon's skin burrow underneath his bony hide, as though they're taking shelter against the coming storm.

Nothing happens.

Abaddon rumbles to himself. The little one denies it, but they're more alike than he would ever care to admit.

A strong breeze fans the flames of the gas line fires. It ruffles Abaddon's spines, rustles the hem of Dean's cassock and greatcoat.

Abaddon's out. The seal is broken, yet they all wait. Heaven and Hell, Dean and the Fallen, they wait for one of them to make the first move.

* * *

Dean's left hand still tingles with the sensations he picked up from the demon horde miles underground. They babble excitedly in the dark, blood red murder the upmost thing on their minds. They'll be here soon. Ten minutes. Maybe sooner.

He hears the whisper of wings in the dark clouds above.

Hell is coming up, and Heaven is descending.

There was a time when he cherished being human. Staying human. Staying on the reservation, is how Dean would put it. He was a freak, and he knew it, but he was a _human_ freak. A human freak with lethal combat skills, able to pick a lock in ten seconds flat, more than willing to put on a suit and overcoat and go into someone's house on false pretenses. He could flip bogus law enforcement tin (pick one: Federal marshal, Homeland Security, FBI) in some civilian's face and lie like a proverbial rug. Anything to get the job done.

Time brings about a change. Being human is not going to help his family. Being human would be a definite disadvantage right now, like bringing a knife to a gunfight.

As Dean stares up at Abaddon he remembers Sam's reaction the very first time he saw Dean go cosmic on Crowley and his pet humans. "So," Sam drawled then, "You were gonna go all wrath of God on their asses, huh?

_Damn right I am. _

He still doesn't know why or how he brought his right hand back. All he could think of at the moment was flexing his fingers, clenching his fist, thumb tucked inside just like Dad taught him.

_Non timebo mala…_

The words just came to him. It felt natural. It felt right. He'd always improvised on hunts, always knew instinctively what to do, despite other evidence to the contrary. He had no idea taking Samirah's injury into him would work either.

_'m making this up as I go along…._

The Spear of Destiny is hidden by a pile of debris a few feet away, behind Abaddon, to his left. The tip of its blade is embedded in the concrete at a slant.

A shimmer of copper light, and the Spear reappears in the open space behind Dean's back. He stands relaxed and easy, his hands down at his sides.

The Spear rotates lazily, silently. The tip of the blade and the broken shaft traces small circles in the air.

Dean never takes his eyes off Abaddon.

The metal blade takes on the same pale golden glow as Dean's right hand. Every inch of the blade is saturated with Samuel Colt's killing magic.

Dean doesn't blink. Neither does Abaddon. They're both up to something, and they both know it.

Hundreds of the shorter black spines around Abaddon's upper shoulders silently detach themselves from the Fallen's pale white skin. The edges of the spines are razor-sharp, the ends are cruelly barbed.

Another long moment passes, and then like everything else, good, bad or indifferent, the impasse comes to an end. Darkness flickers in Abaddon's eyes; Dean's eyes flare gold and copper in response.

With a roar Abaddon lunges forward, his mouth opening wide and fearsome. He flexes his shoulder muscles and his spines rise into the air in a high curving arc with a sizzling hiss, their speed increasing as they fall to earth.

Dean and the Spear vanish as the first wave slams into the ground where he stood.

A flash of copper light, and Dean re-appears on the left. The Spear continues to slowly rotate as it orbits around him. He reaches back with his right hand, grasps the Spear by the blade tip and as he turns he disappears again.

Another wave of spines hits the ground on the left.

A second later Dean re-appears on the right, in mid-turn.

Everything slows down.

Dean flicks his wrist slightly, and the Spear performs a complete circle in mid-air, until the broken shaft is pointing down towards the ground. The glow of the blade intensifies; the air around him blazes with energy. Power flows down his right arm. Time speeds up.

Dean takes hold of the shaft, straightens out and lets the Spear fly.

Light and dark pass each other in the space between. The Spear is a golden streak flashing upward; it sings, a full melodious note. The spines sizzle downward in a dark blur of motion.

The Spear of Destiny hits Abaddon right between the eyes with such force that chunks of his skull fly up into the air. His skin lights up from within, a pale golden glow. The Fallen's mouth jerks open in a startled gasp that seems all too human.

The Horseman vanishes as the last wave of spines thud into the now empty space.

Abaddon stumbles forward, his impossibly wide mouth gaping open as black slime runs down from the wound. He claws weakly at the Spear; smoke rises as the charge of energy scorches his bony fingers. Another step, and his knees buckle. His wings are no use to him this time; they flop uselessly against his back and shoulders.

The angel of the abyss begins his own descent to earth, just as Dean Winchester reappears in a snap of copper light. Winchester looks up and calmly, unhurriedly sidesteps just as Abaddon's massive head and chin crashes down inches away from him.

The ground shakes. Debris is flung up into the air. Blocks away undamaged cars bounce four feet into the air. Car alarms wail and warble nonstop like lost souls.

* * *

_**Washington DC – FBI Building**_

_**Situation Room**_

Victor Hendrickson leans forward and stares at the screens. The room is dead silent, except for the flood of excited voices (Department of Defense, Homeland Security) exploding from the speakers.

"He's down!"

"Need confirmation, Hawkeye Six, repeat, need-"

"Target's down-"

"He's down-"

"Target down, he's down-"

* * *

Dust rises, and for a moment Abaddon is just a huge unmoving shadow in the dimness. The Spear glows as brightly as ever.

The dust settles. Abaddon's wings resemble nothing more than a large tattered black blanket tossed carelessly over his body.

Dean's power sings underneath his skin. It lights up the air around him, with shades of copper and gold. He ignores the silent cries of the unreaped ones around him. Many of them were crushed when Abaddon hit the ground, but their souls are still attached to their ruined flesh. The terror they feel now is at a fever pitch, but none of it touches him.

_Two down,_ Dean thinks to himself. _Circe? You're next, Witch Hazel. _The thought of killing her fills him with boundless pleasure, bright, savage.

_"Back in 1835, when Halley's Comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun - a special gun." _

Dean blinks. It's Dad's voice.

_"He made it for a hunter - a man like us, only on horseback. The story goes he made thirteen bullets."_

Abaddon opens his eyes and winks at Dean.

"Sonofabitch," Dean whispers. Everything inside him screeches to a jolting halt. His legs feel weak, unsteady. "No. It can't be-"

"Is that all you _have_, little brother?" The Fallen laughs. "It tickles." His shoulders shake, and the sound that rumbles out of him is dark and gleeful.

_"They say this gun can kill anything."_ Dad whispers in Dean's memory.

Well, _almost_ anything.

* * *

_**A/N:**_ 1st pop culture reference - "…._.and there shall be destruction and darkness come upon Creation, and the Beast shall reign over the Earth." _This sounds like a biblical prophecy, but it's not. Line taken from the classic fifties giant ant movie "Them!" starring James Whitmore and James Arness. 2nd pop culture reference: Comm sequence and Hawkeye Six from_ Cloverfield_.

TBC later on this week.

Sam and the Horsemen bust loose, Mary meets Samirah, and things go from bad to worse at the Roadhouse.

And someone else dies.


	65. Chapter 65

_**Chapter 65**_

_**A/N: **_I have home internet again, thank goodness! Much thanks to everyone who's reviewed the last chapters. Zachariah bit the dust in Chapter 11; Dean ganked Abaddon's sockpuppet in Chapter 27.

* * *

The Spear of Destiny embedded between Abaddon's eyes looks like a toothpick now. A harmless, useless splinter.

Dean stares up into the malicious dark glitter of Abaddon's eyes. Rage rises up inside him, rage mingled with a sense of potential loss and grief so thick his throat nearly closes up. Dean can't tell whether he's feeling that emotion, or Gaelen is. Can't tell, and quite plainly doesn't give a fuck anymore.

He's got to kill this sonofabitch. Once and for all. He can't fail his family. Not this time.

Dean's mind blanks as his power rises up inside him, vast and overwhelming. Being human, having human feelings, is the one thing he doesn't need right now. The fact that the Colt didn't work is proof of that.

So be it. The Colt was forged by a mere man, after all.

Abaddon raises himself onto his feet with a snap of his spiny wings. Debris fills the air around him, the ground shakes hard enough to set car alarms throughout the Metropolitan Las Vegas area wailing again.

Dean's eyes blaze bright and hot.

The Fallen is engulfed by a wave of copper energy that flows over him like a river. He struggles against it, his long bony limbs and his spines beat frantically in the dark air.

A spot of light bursts through the midnight blackness of Dean's clothing, directly over his heart. The light spreads over him, through him, like dawning light of sunrise. The fire in his eyes pulses, once, in a loud hard stroke that makes the air around him throb, a thunderous wave of sound that surges outwards in an ever widening circle.

Dean raises his hand towards Abaddon.

Bones break like the crack of doom. Abaddon's skin tears, from head to toe, with a ripping sound like old, rotten canvas giving way. His skin peels back, revealing dried up pale organs, yellow muscle, and dark pimply clumps of maggots. The pavement underneath the dark angel's feet bubbles and liquefies.

Dean pours out his rage and his power. He and the Fallen are connected now. Abaddon's skin rips and tears, long strips of pale white and red flesh wave lazily in the updrafts created by the intense heat. Thick black smoke boils upward. He can't see Abaddon's pale vast face anymore, but that doesn't matter. The acrid stench of burning, rotten flesh is overwhelming, but Dean doesn't notice.

…_stop.…it…_

This is working. In another moment or two, Abaddon will be coarse black ash and cinders blowing in the wind.

Dean hears the song of his power, flowing outward, relentless, and it feels so natural, so right, that he ignores the small voice that struggles to be heard over the eternal tide. He's Death, born to it, destined to be. He's annihilated whole races, cities and civilizations.

…_feeding him…_

It's his voice, the human voice, (_Weak,_ the Horseman aspect sings. _Stupid. Powerless_.) the voice he listened to when he thought he was just a mere human, when he denied his true self.

_You dumb sonofabitch…_

The dense smoke shifts. Abaddon looks different somehow. Dean can see the slope of his shoulder. As he watches Abaddon's thin skin bulges upwards. The skin itself changes color, but it's not the singed blackness Dean expects.

…_.look at him…_

Abaddon's pale red skin color deepens to bright red.

_...he's Hulking out…_

The Fallen's arm rises up out of the smoke. Thick slabs of muscles ripple down his bones.

…_.because we're feeding him…_

The smoke parts as Abaddon leans forward. His cratered pale face is just as red as the rest of him now.

_-we're feeding him-_

Abaddon smiles cheerfully, a nightmare grin of squirming maggots wedged tight between spikes of gleaming pale bone.

Something dark and gleeful yet somehow familiar (_My turn, little one) _flows down the conduit between them. It strikes Dean in the space between his eyes. White hot agony ricochets off the bony confines of his skull. The light in his eyes flickers out as his head rocks back. The pain's familiar, blinding; it sizzles downward through the channel of his bones, floods his muscles, sapping his strength.

His legs buckle. Dean falls.

Abaddon's laughter follows him down into the dark.

* * *

The archangel Michael doesn't realize that at that exact moment he's become visible to the humans and their camera devices. Doesn't realize, and truth to tell, wouldn't care even if he did know. When he sees Dean Winchester drop to the ground Michael does something that he hasn't done in a long, long time.

He smiles, bright and cheerful. His clear blue eyes sparkle. The lines of tension in his face relax so much he looks decades younger.

_Bastard. Mother chose him to look after Creation. Him. Not me. I am the Good Son. Her Righteous Fist. And it's not enough. _

_It never was._

Whatever happens to the Horseman is no concern of Michael's now. There were five things in all Creation that the Colt cannot kill. Lately that number has increased to include Abaddon the Fallen, among others. Perhaps Michael should have told Dean Winchester that.

He didn't.

Michael cocks his head slightly at the rustle of angel wings in the dark clouds overhead, the excited chitter of demons underground. Hell will break the surface soon enough. It's time he was on his way.

The archangel shrugs his shadow wings off his shoulders. He rises slowly to his feet, and as he stands sleek black armor covers him from head to toe. His visor is emblazoned with an intricate cross, as are his gauntlets. The golden crest on his breastplate is the head of a magnificent maned lion, its mouth open in a tremendous roar. Out of the shadows his true wings unfurl, bright and massive.

One powerful downward snap of those splendid wings, and Michael hurtles up into the sky to join his garrison.

* * *

Half a world away, on the Royal Caribbean cruise ship _Oasis of the Seas_, Michael's wolfish grin startles and worries Gabriel.

God shows absolutely no reaction to what's going on. Instead She shades Her eyes with Her wide brimmed hat, smiles at one of the servers passing by and asks for another shrimp cocktail.

Her lack of response scares Gabriel just as much as Michael's smile does.

* * *

_Relax,_ the voice inside her head whispers.

Circe listens attentively. It sounds like her voice; she's certain of it.

Despite the frigid cold surrounding her in this little corner of hell, Circe doesn't feel the chill in the air. That doesn't mean she's immune to pain and discomfort. Her entire body feels tight and rigid, and it's no wonder. Casting and maintaining control over such multi-layered magick is always exhausting.

The witch stares down into the dark ice around her, and she's satisfied with what she sees. The Horsemen and their mounts are still cocooned, helpless. Samuel Colt's special magic has failed, and the Fallen has turned the tables on the Horseman. Her hellhounds have surrounded the Roadhouse. The humans and that damn cat goddess are still trapped inside. She has things under control. It wouldn't hurt to relax her hold on things, just a little.

_All is well, _the voice whispers softly._ Relax._

Circe does.

* * *

_**The Imperial Palace Hotel**_

"You," the black horse rumbles, and the sound of her voice raises the hair at the back of Mary Winchester's neck.

It's Dean's horse, but its sleek black coat looks wet, slimy. Mary doesn't know what happened, only that he's not here and the horse is clearly in a bad mood. Her ears flatten tight against her neck; she breathes steam and fire with each flex of her nostrils. John's mouth suddenly fills with too many teeth, sharp and jagged, and Mary suddenly knows that the demon inside her husband is going to provoke the horse into trampling him.

"Never had horsemeat before. I'll bite." The damned thing wearing John laughs. The black horse bares her teeth at him. He lunges at her, and the animal charges forward.

Mary pushes the mattress away and crosses the room in two long strides, legs pumping. She doesn't remember grabbing onto the saddle and swinging up on the black horse's back, but she must have, because she's in the saddle now, pressing her knees tight into the horse's sides. Mary grabs the reins and pulls hard, and the horse snarls angrily, tossing her head, fighting the bit.

"He's Dean's father!" Mary calls out. "Please, stop-"

The animal rears up, pawing at the air.

It's like riding a force of nature, a tornado, or a hurricane. Sleek, hard muscles bunch and explode as the beast bucks and spins. The possessed ones scatter as furniture is kicked up into the air and smashed into kindling against the walls.

The black horse turns in a tight circle, and Mary is suddenly gripped by a sensation of forward speed that overwhelms her. She glances down at herself and her eyes widen.

She's fading out, and so is the black horse.

Everything blurs into a haze of bright copper.

* * *

It's quiet now. Alone in the kitchen, Ellen looks out the back window and frowns. Hell has come to earth, and it's right there in her back lot. She's certain of that. The look of those things sitting out there hurts her eyes. Literally. What she sees (scaly grey skin, gargantuan limbs, black eyes, claws and teeth that would do a great white shark proud) hurts her eyes. Or maybe her mind. Maybe the human mind wasn't built to tolerate such horror. Looking at them head on gives her a headache.

Two of the beasts sit quietly in the back, staring at the Roadhouse. Jo and Ash reported that the other two were at the front of the building.

Ellen mutters to herself. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

"Now that they've treed us, they're gonna sit and wait. Until their master tells them otherwise."

Ellen jumps. She clutches the rifle in her hands, has to fight the urge to raise it and fire. She'd thought she was alone back there, and until Bobby walked in unnoticed, she was.

He turns the water on at the sink and smiles slightly at her reaction.

"Damn it, Singer, never sneak up on a woman with a gun," Ellen growls.

Bobby shrugs. "I wasn't walking soft. Thought you heard me." He takes the soap and scrubs at his fingers. He scowls as he looks out, and then drops his eyes, concentrates on washing up.

"Hellhounds, huh?"

"Most very likely. I trained my dogs to hold, sit and stay." He nods in the direction of the back lot without looking directly outside. "When they sic 'em on us. We'll know."

"How's Bastet?"

"Still out, but she's breathing, at least. Figured she'd wake up and rip my face off when I stitched her up. She didn't. Jo's sitting with her."

Neither hunter mentions the live television feed from Vegas.

* * *

One of the things out in the back lot rises to its feet with a snorty grunt and paces back and forth. Dust rises with each step. Its muzzle is striped with Bastet's claw marks. Deep within the recesses of its tiny brain, a spark re-kindles, an emotion it hasn't felt in a long time.

Anger. Circe never allowed that before.

That damn cat thing hurt it.

Those humans stung it with their guns.

The hellhound glances at the Roadhouse and snarls. The spines on its back rise up with every step.

This beast has slipped its leash. Circe doesn't control it anymore.

* * *

The first thing Mary sees when she comes back to herself is that she's on her feet, not in the saddle. She sways slightly as she looks around the room, blinking, confused.

John's not here, and he should be. Neither are Momma and Daddy. Caleb's gone. So's Tessa and Pastor Jim.

This is a different suite. Different wallpaper. No holes in the walls. No smashed furniture.

The far wall shimmers and the black horse steps through.

A faint bluish glow streaks over her body and the slime or wetness that covered her disappears. Mary doesn't know what that was, and she doesn't ask. The horse looks calm enough, but she's still pretty damn impressive and fearsome this close up. Fear chills Mary's spine, and she backs up. Fast.

She's suddenly aware that that the long white dress she wears is no protection at all. She's barefoot, and she has no weapons. The backs of her legs bump up against the bed behind her. That throws her off balance. She sits down, hard and awkward, bouncing slightly on the mattress. That plays hell with the badass image she's trying to project.

Mary glares at the animal and crosses her arms in front of her chest, and the look the black gives her is amused, almost fond. Mary stares openly at the critter, and the black stares back boldly, her head cocked slightly to one side, ears pricked. She takes it all in, that delicate, chiseled head, the long flowing mane, the tail held high and proud. Perfect conformation, lean, powerful muscles underneath that sleek midnight black coat.

Even as a child Dean always gravitated towards horses. He became excited the first time he saw the pony rides in the park, and he insisted on going there at least once a week.

_And now I know why,_ Mary thinks dryly to herself, as though her wayward son can somehow hear her. _So you're a Horseman, huh, kiddo? No surprise there._ _I can see why you love her. _She has this sudden, irresistible urge to reach out and pat that soft velvet nose, but she's not sure how the animal would take that. Mary slowly scrubs her hands over her thighs instead.

The horse nickers softly. "You're his dam, all right."

Even with everything that's happened to her, dying, going to heaven and all that, it still freaks Mary out to hear this animal talk. She doesn't sound like Mr. Ed; her voice is low, husky, like Kathleen Turner in that movie _Body Heat._ It also occurs to Mary that the horse is amused because Dean's looked at her this way on numerous occasions.

"His _what_?"

The mare rolls her eyes as if Mary should know what the word means. "Gaelen's mother."

"Gaelen?"

"You call him Dean," the horse says mildly. "I call him Gaelen. Sometimes Wil-bur."

Mary frowns at that last part, but she decides not to ask. Her head's still fuzzy from the fade out, or whatever the hell that was before. She's heard it before, but she can't remember the name of this beast…_Samantha? Sammara?_ The idea that Dean named his horse after Sam is surprisingly poignant, and Mary feels a tug at her heart when she thinks of her sons.

"My name's Samirah. I wasn't named after your Sam." Samirah looks puzzled. "Why does everyone think that?"

"You can read my mind?" Mary looks startled.

The black looks smug. "A little."

"How are my boys?"

The slight droop of Samirah's head, ears, and shoulders says it all.

_They can't be dead._ Mary pushes that thought away instead. "You tried to hurt John."

"The father. I don't like him. Don't like demons, either. I wasn't going to hurt him." The look she gives Mary is somewhat sheepish. "Well, not _much_, anyway."

"We've got to go back for him and the others."

"No, we don't."

Mary's mouth firms into a thin, hard line. "I'm not leaving John. Or my parents and my friends. My sons need help too."

Samirah shakes her head wearily. "We can't leave."

"We can't? Why not?"

"Damn worms. They've blocked the pathways out of here. All of them." Samirah turns and stares at the wall behind her, ears pricked, eyes new penny bright.

"Why don't we—" Mary suddenly finds herself enveloped in a flash of copper light, then she's back in the saddle again.

"They're coming," Samirah says flatly. "We have to go."

There's a low rumbling in the walls, faraway but still close enough to shake the mirrors on the walls. The glasses and shampoo bottles in the bathroom jitter across the silver and grey marbled countertop.

Mary picks up the reins and holds them loosely as Samirah turns and walks into the far wall.

* * *

Chapter 66 is posted next.


	66. Chapter 66

**Chapter 66**

_All is well, _Circe thinks to herself.

_Relax. All is well._

* * *

Dean awakens with the memory of dark laughter echoing inside his head.

Everything's grey. Out of focus, blurry. He blinks and squints wearily at the cracked pavement two inches away from his nose.

He's on the ground. More to the point, he's on his hands and knees. Every muscle in his body aches; his bones are broken brittle glass. A huge shadow falls over him, and Dean's head bobbles as he looks up in that direction.

The Fallen gives Dean a shrewd, sideways look, and then the features of his red pitiless face re-arrange themselves in a grotesque imitation of sympathy and compassion.

"I worry about you sometimes." The dark angel coos soothingly. "Did you really forget that I can cause you pain, little brother?"

"'m…'m…not…your…damn brother," Dean gasps.

Abaddon clucks his tongue. "Still playing at being human, eh? We can help you with that."

_We?_ Dean doesn't like the sound of that.

Dark clumps of maggots writhe and squirm underneath the fallen angel's skin. They gather together in huge, uneven clusters that grow larger. It looks so nasty Dean gags. His stomach does a slow, lazy flip-flop, and the look of distress on his face makes Abaddon chuckle.

The shrieks and wails of the unreaped ones slowly recede into background noise. An entirely new noise shriek loudly as ever, but even that shrill sound is slowly drowned out by an entirely new one.

…_.pretty boy…_

The hair at the back of Dean's neck rises up, stiff and painful. It's a hum at first, soft, then louder. The sound sharpens into a low pitched buzz that pauses, rises and falls, only to start up again. Words. He hears words. And laughter.

…_sweetness…_

Abaddon's skin splits open, tiny little slits that dot his massive frame.

Dean's vision blurs. He thinks he sees hundreds of small dark things flit out into the open air. They hover in the air and then swoop downwards towards the ground, in Dean's direction. He shakes his head and squints, and his vision clears. Right then and there he immediately wishes he'd left well enough alone.

They flutter in the air all around him, lightly brushing their filmy wings against his skin and hair. The sensation makes his skin crawl, and Dean can't suppress a shudder of revulsion. Up until now he really thought he'd seen it all, and as a Horseman and a hunter, he had. But he'd never seen anything like this.

Dean stares wide-eyed._ Holy shit-_

…_hullo…_

He sees long white insect wings splattered with black. The bodies resemble horse bodies, with wrinkled, hairless brown skin. They have no tails, but stingers instead, wickedly sharp ones that curve over their backs. The faces are the worst. Wild black hair, wide jaws that gape to show tiny sharp fangs. They smile and cackle at him, their tiny black eyes bright with inhuman glee and malice.

…_hullo…sweet boy…hullo…_

Dean thinks about raising his left hand. He can't, not at first, and then his fingers tremble and spasm. Dean hisses. He bites back the scream that rises in his throat as white hot pain courses through his bones.

The swarm zips away from him in a startled, jerky motion. Abaddon leans back. Waiting.

Dean's left hand shakes. He calls on everything he has left inside him.

Nothing happens.

The tiny fuglies glare at him, a hard flat shine rising up in those black eyes.

They're pissed. Their stingers twitch back and forth.

_Get up, _Dean tells himself. His muscles tremble and shake.

Their tiny voices grow deeper, more harsh.

…_.he tried to hurt us…_

_Not gonna go out on my knees. Get up- _A faint spark of copper fires up in both eyes. The trembling in his body lessens somewhat. _Get up, damn it._

The buzz grows louder.

…_doesn't like us…_

He raises himself up in fits and starts, but he's suddenly _there_, standing on his own two feet. He can't feel his legs, but he sways from from side to side.

…_.teach him… his place…._

Something red hot and razor sharp slashes into the side of his face. Dean feels warm wetness splash his jaw and the side of his neck. One of the swarm backs away in mid-air.

Her stinger drips with blood, dark and wet.

His blood.

In the next instant he's struck again by something coming from the opposite direction.

The swarm closes in. They buzz around him and they curse him. They strike over and over again, ripping his clothing open. The pain from the stings is a coldness that creeps through his body, and his skin is dotted with hundreds of dark marks and bruises.

The glow in Dean's eyes sputters, and then flares. His power, weak as it is, keeps him on his feet.

The air around him sparks and snaps with bursts of copper energy. Some of the swarm die, but it's not enough. For every one that he kills, fifty take its place. Killing those few royally pisses off the rest.

His body jerks again with another hit, and Dean's eyes grow dull. His tongue has gone numb. A part of his mind, the calm detached part, knows that the stingers are venomous.

He hears Heaven in the clouds above, and Hell scratching at the basement of the world. The unreaped ones wail and shriek.

Dean senses the humans in the city all around him, live ones, live for the moment, anyway, huddled in dark houses and rooms, staring in disbelief at computer monitors and television screens.

Staring at him.

He senses his Mom, and that can't be right. Wishful thinking. She's not here, she's up in Heaven, and he's pretty sure that if she's looking down right now she doesn't like what she sees.

He senses Sam and Samirah, Rika, Chale and Tiesen. He's lost them again, and the thought should fill him with regret, but it doesn't. That emotion is too far away to even touch him. The world draws away from him, even as his own power flexes in the air weakly around him.

This feels like dying, and that's something he's done before. With each hit his ties to this plane of existence unravels and weakens. Soft grey spots bloom along the edge of his vision.

Dean fights back through pure instinct. The air around him sparks and snaps with copper energy. Some of the swarm die, floating wisps of yellow ash and cinders, but it's not enough. For every one he kills, hundreds take its place.

The moment stretches on for another second.

And then all hell breaks loose.

* * *

The earth groans loudly, in pain and outrage, as Hell surfaces. The pavement cracks, and then bulges upwards. Thick ribbons of yellow sulfur fumes stream up into the air.

Demons in smoke form emerge first, coiling upward, deep purple light sparking and snapping around the edges.

The others emerge next. Their kind has not walked the earth for centuries. It's a mad rush of thousands of closely packed bodies, and while some of them are man-shaped, with arms and legs, there is no mistaking any of them as human beings. Some are faceless. The arms and legs are too long, the heads are either too large or too long, shaped in a cruel parody of animal features: long, sharp muzzles filled with yellow sharp teeth. Dark grey flesh, striped with black scales. Scaly red skin, oversized black eyes. Some of the demons resemble oversized spiders, others octopi, all of it unnatural and hideous. Razor sharp teeth, jagged hooked claws, tightly curled ram's horns, long spines that writhe and twist in the open air. Lucifer has always favored variety, in all its gruesome forms.

Abaddon's locusts scatter in all directions from Dean. They swirl up in the air and then finally settle on the spines of his wings. The air buzzes with their anger.

…_he's ours… _

…_not theirs…_

…_took him from us…_

"Hush now," Abaddon rumbles, and they all do.

The Fallen's eyes narrow as he watches as the demon horde engulf the Horseman. Smoke demons coil around Winchester's head and body, obscuring him completely from view. The other demons join in, whooping and shrieking in sheer delight, digging their claws into his flesh, wrapping their slimy appendages around his arms and legs, holding him tight.

Those demons who have faces look up and smile at the Fallen, in much the same way a small dog tries to curry favor from their master after a particularly clever trick. Their pointy smiles stretch from ear to ear, from horn to horn. They've done a good thing, haven't they? After all, they're on the same side.

Abaddon is not pleased.

The Horseman is his, and his alone.

If the Fallen had his way, he'd lay waste to the Earth all by himself. He doesn't play well with others. The smiles and the adoring looks of Hell's hordes has the opposite effect.

Abaddon is royally pissed off, and he lets the emotion get the better of him.

MINE!" The Fallen roars, and he swats at the horde with his huge left hand. The air throbs with the force of the blow. Demons fly up into the air, scattered to all four corners of Las Vegas.

Dean Winchester is unconscious when he crashes into the lobby of the MGM Grand. He doesn't stir, not even when tons of debris from the upper floors crash down on top of him.

Up above Michael and his fellow archangels stare in disbelief.

* * *

Circe's stomach growls.

She's fasted before, but she can't remember whether she fasted this time.

_All is well,_ she thinks to herself, and in the next instant she realizes how wrong she really is.

_You'll forget all the magic you know. Now and forever._

Circe listens attentively. She recognizes the voice now.

_His_ voice, _not_ hers.

_War's_ voice.

_Relax. All is well. _

Circe's body is suddenly gripped by an unseen force. Her arms fly out and then are pinned tight against her sides. Both legs slam together. She hears the bright quick snap of bone as both femurs shatter, but she can't scream. Her mouth is clamped shut.

_Our turn. Show's over, witch. _Circe can practically see the grin in Sam Winchester's thought voice.

The air above the scrying lake flexes with the Winchester boy's power. Cracks stitch across that slick surface; dark ice shatters into a million pieces. The fragments rise up into the dark red air, pause for a moment, and then slam back down with a force that makes Hell thrum from border to border.

Circe struggles weakly. She gathers her power, but there's no magic left. _No!_

_Yes_, the voices inside her head reply. Human and equine thought voices, strong, patient. They're not angry, and that frightens her even more.

The damn leeches have failed. The Horsemen are free.

_Guess what happens next?_ Pestilence says.

Thick oozing boils appear, dotting the skin of both arms. Her normally perfect tan skin color acquires an unhealthy greenish tint. All manner of disease blooms inside her lungs and organs.

_Eat, _Famine whispers._ Go on._

Circe doubles over. Her stomach becomes a hollow, howling hole in her middle. She's never felt such hunger before. The witch opens her mouth and bites off two of her fingers, right down to the second joint. She bites, chews, and swallows, and then she bites herself again.

Her mouth waters, dribbles of saliva trailing down her chin and her neck. She has some trouble when she reaches her left elbow, but she stretches her mouth wide and somehow manages to eat the rest.

She's_ so_ hungry, and each bite is so sweet and tender.

* * *

_**The Roadhouse**_

The thing outside roars, a deep basso howl filled with pain and rage that shakes the building, and Bobby knows the shit has hit the proverbial fan. When he turns towards the window he sees the damned beast as it lunges towards the Roadhouse, pounding along in a cloud of dust. Thick slaver pours from its gaping jaws. It's headed for the building and this time it's not going to stop. Whether its master has told it to attack or the thing is acting on its own doesn't matter.

Bobby pushes Ellen towards the rear door. He's not the least bit gentle about it, he can see the fear and irritation in her eyes (_Let me take a shot at it, you damn fool-_).

That's not going to work, and they both know it.

Bobby pushes, keeps pushing, and Ellen's at the door leading to the front of the Roadhouse, and it might be okay, they might get a break after all, but the back kitchen window darkens, and a split second later the window frame explodes inward in a cloud of wood splinters and pulverized glass. Ellen has a death grip on her rifle, but she's frozen in shock, wide-eyed, staring at something directly behind and to Bobby's right. He turns in that direction, and he sees what it is soon enough.

Teeth. Hundreds of them.

Those gaping jaws close around his body.

It doesn't hurt. Hell of a thing. Bobby feels pressure. He can't catch his breath, but it doesn't hurt. He tastes his blood on his lips, warm and salty.

The dog thing grunts happily, and that pisses Bobby off. He's not going to be gobbled down like some damn dog treat, so Bobby reaches out with his hands and jams his fingers into one of the thing's round black eyes.

The hell thing howls angrily. It clamps its jaws even tighter, shakes its head back and forth. The air around Bobby turns dark red.

_I hope you choke on me, you bastar-_

* * *

TBC later this week.


	67. Chapter 67

_**A/N:**_ I have no idea if there is a weathercam located on top of the Stratosphere. I'm making this up as I go along. Same thing goes for the layout of the Imperial Palace.

_**A/N #2: **_I understand that some readers were disturbed that Castiel is a not-so-nice angel in this fic. In this chapter the Horsemen continue their vendetta against everyone who trapped them, which includes a certain angel in a trenchcoat. Ye have been warned.

* * *

_**Chapter 67 **_

Mary Winchester and Samirah appear in the lobby of the Imperial Palace in a crackle of black and copper lightning.

Black eyes are everywhere, and Samirah's not happy about any of this. The wards sealing them inside the building are too strong here. She can't see ahead, can't tell what's out there until she steps into the open.

Possessed humans howl and screech at the sight of the woman in white and the black horse. The demons drop their meatsuits down on all fours, scrambling along on their palms and the soles of their feet, limbs bent in an unnatural fashion as they swarm towards the newcomers.

Samirah turns on a dime. She charges at the mirrored glass of the far wall. A demon wearing a little blue haired old lady grabs at her tail just as the glass shimmers and sizzles. Horse and rider disappear into the slick surface.

The demon thuds nose first into the thick mirror. When it pulls back it leaves behind a spiderweb of cracked glass. The thing cackles angrily at the six long black hairs twined around its claws.

The demons squall angrily at the mirrored glass. They beat at the wall with their hands, and they pay no mind when the glass shatters in their faces.

The air burns copper in front of the down escalator behind them. Samirah leaps out of the haze. She hits the ground running and doesn't miss a beat. Mary slides forward in the saddle and catches herself.

"What are you doing!" Mary yelps. She tries not to cringe at the sound of her voice. She has a death grip on a handful of Samirah's mane and the reins.

"Hold on!" The black mare roars. She stretches her neck out and storms up the escalator the wrong way. The demons finally turn in that direction.

Mary and Samirah reach the top and vanish again.

Two floors up, Samirah flashes in and out of the doorways from one room to the other as she streaks down the hallway in a zigzag pattern. Mary holds on grimly. The story inside each room is the same. More possessed ones, more blocked pathways.

Samirah and Mary disappear into the wall at the end of the hallway.

Twenty seconds later the horse and her rider re-appear in the midst of the Automobile Collections, the huge classic car museum.

More damn demons, even more than before. The possessed ones hiss and shriek as they clamber over the rooftops of the cars. Samirah rumbles angrily. She bares her teeth, snaps outstretched fingers like brittle twigs as they try to grab her bridle. These humans are possessed, true enough, but she's not going to allow them to drag her down.

Mary slips her right foot from the stirrup and kicks out as several demons lunge at her. She jerks back as they try to hook their claws into her leg.

The black horse screams angrily. Every windshield, every piece of glass in the place shatters, filling the air with a fine silver spray. The air around Samirah and Mary blazes with bright energy that forces the demons backwards, but it's not enough. They surge back into the fill the gap.

Samirah's muscles tighten, and Mary Winchester instinctively squeezes her knees tight against the horse's sides.

Mary holds on, and Samirah buck jumps.

Her hind legs slam into the bright blue 1923 Cord roadster sitting directly behind them. The impact t-bones the vehicle. It lifts off the floor, tumbles and spins in mid-air, and the demon ridden humans go flying.

Samirah and Mary slip ghost-like into the walls.

* * *

John curses. He yells inside his own head, and none of it does any good. He watches as Deanna and Samuel Campbell, Caleb and Jim Murphy lift up their assorted weapons: fire axes, crowbars, and meat cleavers. Their eyes are black, faces distorted with a grinning, hellish joy. The demon inside Tessa makes her mouth stretch from ear to ear as she makes several mystic passes through the air with the oversized butcher knife in her hands.

_Party favors, John boy, _the demon inside John purrs. It happily swings its own weapon, a shiny red fire ax_. For when we catch up with your two favorite ladies. _

John senses the killing energy the demon's magick'd into the steel blade. _You sonofabitch, leave them alone or I'll -_

_Or you'll what? You'll what? I'm shaking in my boots, Winchester. That bitch of a nag is a real mover and shaker, but don't worry, Johnny. They won't get far._

* * *

Ao-kuang, the dragon owner of the Imperial Palace, the mightiest of the Four Dragons, is beyond caring. The Palace has been corrupted by smoke demons, and by extension, so has he. His normally golden eyes are black now, and his human form, that of a tall, stately bald human male, looks rather odd at the moment. His skin bulges outward. He's bursting at the seams with dark energy as he leans forward and drops down to all fours.

The dragon aspect bursts out of his human skin. Smooth skin gives way to dull metallic green scales. His long tail snaps in the air like a bullwhip, his mouth gapes wide in a toothy grin. Ao-kuang thinks of that damn apocamare, and his mouth waters. He runs his long red forked tongue slowly over his teeth. He's never tasted horsemeat before.

The First Dragon slithers into the walls.

* * *

_Damn worms_, Samirah snorts angrily.

The walls around them vibrates with the rumbling of dragons.

The woman on her back sits quietly. She doesn't tug on the reins, she doesn't kick or dig her heels into Samirah's side. She sits in the saddle with a natural, sometimes awkward grace, and she has enough sense to let Samirah lead.

She's so much like Gaelen she makes Samirah's heart ache.

Samirah picks out a pathway, a shimmering tunnel in the dimness between the walls. There's no other choice, no other way out. Samirah doesn't say, but she knows Mary knows too.

They're being herded. Up towards the roof.

It ends, the way everything else does this day, out in the open, underneath the wild dark sky.

* * *

Dean Winchester lies still and pale amid the wreckage of the MGM Grand. The force of the impact created a small space that curved the debris around him. He's on his left side, curled up in a fetal position, his right arm bent forward, his ghost of a right hand curled up against his chest. His skin is so pale his freckles resemble brown grains of sand, broken up only by the purplish bruises and stings that cover his body. Dean looks calm, serene, a pale, perfect statue carved in pale marble wearing ripped and tattered midnight black clothing, a study in pain and repose. A three foot long rod of metal rebar has pierced his right side, but Dean pays it no mind. The rise and fall of his chest is barely noticeable. His dark lashes lie impossibly long and curved against his too white skin, but his eyes aren't closed all the way. It's as if he's staring at something faraway, something only he can see. Copper and gold light stutters between the soot darkness of his lashes, flashing in time to the sluggish beating of his heart, casting a dim, flickering light within the space.

Dean doesn't stir, not even when the building shakes around him, and tons of more debris falls.

* * *

A flash of bright light in the skies over Las Vegas heralds Lucifer's arrival. His gigantic dark wings are rimmed with brilliant yellow hellfire. The Morning Star wears shining white armor that he's chosen especially for this occasion; his crest is a fearsome dragon, jaws agape.

Michael is _not _impressed.

At his signal half of the angels fly down at the demons on the ground. The earth trembles as the two opposing forces collide into each other. Swords flash, demon fangs glint and gape in response.

The combatants give Abaddon wide berth, and absolutely no one goes near the wreck of the MGM Grand Hotel, where the Horseman is buried. The Imperial Palace is ignored, as is the bus schoolyard where the rest of the Horsemen are. The remaining fighters, winged angels and large coiled smoke demons, dart and slash at each other in the murky dark.

The Good Son scoffs as he draws his sword. Incredibly enough, instead of drawing his own sword, Lucifer spreads his arms wide.

Michael hesitates.

Lucifer smirks at the multitudes on the ground below and around them. "We can be fashionably late, for once, brother. After all, they can't end this without us." He nods at Abaddon's massive red bulk below. "Winchester used the Colt on him, yet the Fallen survived. With your help. I know what you did, brother."

"You don't know anything," Michael replies stiffly. "Draw your sword and let's get down to business."

"But I _do_ know." Lucifer's immense dark wings flex in one powerful upstroke as he moves backwards. He still doesn't draw his sword. Instead he removes his left gauntlet.

Michael glares at the triangular sigil burned into his brother's forearm.

"I owe this all to you. More protection, in case that damned Horseman somehow gets the upper hand again. He's like a cockroach, that one. Stomp him flat and he always gets up." Another nod, this time in the direction of the MGM Grand. "I wouldn't count him out just yet."

"I don't know what you mean."

Lucifer smiles, bright and wicked. "Of course you do. You hate him so much months ago you searched for and found protection against the Colt. And after you did, you went to Zachariah in secret, convinced him to confront Winchester that day. You told the fool that God would honor him for that, even told him that the spell you spoke over him would protect him. Such cold-bloodness! I'm proud of you, brother. I really am."

Michael shakes his head. "I didn't-"

"Yes, you did. It's all right, Michael. No one liked Zachariah anyway. You were there when it happened. You watched as Winchester killed Zachariah with the Colt's magic, and then you decided to refine the spell, because you found the sigil was the last, missing part."

Michael is silent.

"Before there were five beings in Creation the Colt could not kill. And now, thanks to you, there are more. Because a month later you visited Abaddon in the pit. You gifted him with the improved spell, with the added sigil. Winchester killed the Fallen's puppet, but the Colt's magic couldn't touch Abaddon himself. "

Lucifer stares intently at Abaddon. "Plenty of space to hide the sigil. Underneath his jaw? On the back of his neck, perhaps?"

Michael's eyes narrow. "How did you find out?"

Lucifer slips his gauntlet back on. "I have my sources in heaven as well."

The look Lucifer gives his brother is warm and fond, a fact which irritates Michael to no end. "You cast the spell around yourself, and you branded yourself, too. I can sense its protection around you. A good idea is a good idea."

"Old business, brother." Michael bares his teeth. "It doesn't matter. Let's get to the new business at hand, shall we?"

"But of course," Lucifer draws his own sword, and they leap at each other.

* * *

There's a lot going on right now that Bobby doesn't understand. The last few minutes are kinda fuzzy in his mind.

He remembers teeth. Lots of 'em, sharp and jagged.

He doesn't understand why there's so much blood on the floor and walls. Or where it came from.

Rumsfeld2 sits on his haunches in the hallway behind him. The dog closes his eyes, throws back his head and howls.

Bobby doesn't like that sound.

"Shut up, you stupid idjit!" Bobby growls roughly.

The dog doesn't listen. He howls again, long and mournful.

Bobby can't understand why the damn dog won't shut up.

Ellen yells as she backs up. She raises her gun just as Bobby reaches out for her. His hand passes through her shoulder in a shimmer of white light.

Bobby stares at his hand in shock.

The building shakes slightly as that damn hound thing backs out of the Roadhouse. There's something in its mouth. Something that looks like a rag doll. Bloodied. Torn.

He looks at the dead, slack face (_not—not me Oh God-_), sees those open vacant eyes, and then glances away.

_You're not breathing, you damn fool-_

Mind's playing tricks, that's all.

_Can't feel your heartbeat anymore, can you?_

This is a trick. That's all. Just a trick-

* * *

"Come and get some, you sonofabitch!" Ellen roars, and she steps forward and fires at the hellhound.

The hell thing backs up, growling and rumbling. It drops Bobby on the ground, and right then and there Ellen feels like screaming, he's so limp (_there's so much damn blood-_) and so lifeless, but she doesn't. She fires again and again.

The thing shakes its head angrily as the shots sting its head and eyes, and then the room darkens as the beast lunges forward again.

_Chale,_ Ellen thinks as those jaws gape wide, _if you're out there, I could use a little help-_

* * *

Gabriel settles himself.

Maybe, just maybe, he can unfurl his wings and be gone before She moves against him. After all, he's never seen God this relaxed before.

His face grows blank as he stares at the television screens on the ship's deck, and he struggles against the cold feeling of dread that threatens to consume him. He's never taken a stand before. It was always easier to run away, easier to hide.

There's no place to hide anymore.

He likes the world just as it is.

He has to stop this somehow.

His family is screwed up. Totally. He expected this sort of thing from Lucifer, sure, but Michael? Not Michael….

_I've got to stop this-_

"Don't do it, kiddo," God drawls lazily. "You stay put, y'hear?"

Gabriel freezes with Her Word.

God nods and takes another sip of her piña colada. "Good boy."

* * *

God's eyes flash pure gold for a moment. She sees the skyline of Las Vegas in Her mind, and yes, there it is. Weathercam 8632B, located atop the spire of the Stratosphere ride. It's the highest point in Las Vegas, and the placement of the camera suits Her purposes just fine.

She turns the camera down, towards the bus schoolyard, where the Horsemen are. She over-rides the network feeds, and the scene below comes into sharp focus.

Out of all the wonderful toys humankind has created and watched this terrible day, the little weathercam that could takes center stage world-wide for the moment.

* * *

Castiel's never been allowed such free rein before. He stares at the would-be Horseman lying helpless on the ground at his feet, and he can't help but smile. This boy is an abomination, a godless creature, tainted by the yellow eyed demon. God would want this done. Castiel is sure of it. He could kick and beat Sam Winchester for the rest of eternity, and if he has anything to say about it, he will.

The angel draws his foot back.

Sam Winchester opens his eyes. There's no copper glow in them, no yellow spark, a keepsake from Azazel. There's just awareness and solid determination.

Castiel sees that the leeches are dead and have fallen off the boy's body, and he doesn't understand why he didn't notice any of this before. He opens his mouth to shout a warning, and his mouth clamps shut painfully. He wobbles as his entire body is seized by an invisible, unseen force.

* * *

Sam rises slowly to his feet. He sees the angel's essence underneath the human skin, bright, shifting shades of light. This is a new way of seeing, one that Sam's never experienced before.

He also hears the vessel's voice.

The voice is soft, hesitant, rough, as though the speaker hasn't given voice to his thoughts in a long time.

_My name…is…James Novack…_

Sam nods in acknowledgement.

_I wanted to be…of service….I prayed…for this…Oh God…I was so wrong… _

_Be careful what you wish for. _Novack flinches at the sound of Sam's thought voice._ My brother's in trouble because of you and your damn angels. This world's in danger, because of you._

A murderous rage rises up in Sam, so all-consuming his throat nearly closes up. Angels were supposed to be on their side, the side of good and right. He'd prayed to these bastards all his life, for help, for guidance, and now he knows he was wrong all along. It would be easy to kill the angel and his vessel, and after all that's happened, who'd blame him? Who'd-

"No," Sam whispers out loud.

He reaches out with his mind, takes hold of the angel himself, not the vessel. The human vessel is misguided, but he's an innocent, a rare commodity in the school bus yard.

Sam smiles at the angel, and his thought voice inside Castiel's mind is soft as a whisper, and loud as thunder.

_Now, where were we?_

* * *

…_.if you're out there, I could use a little help-_

"Ellen?" Chale whispers. For a moment the school bus yard fades out around him. He sees broken concrete and smashed timbers, splashes of dark fresh blood. He smells sulfur stench, raw and noisome.

Out in the back lot of the Roadhouse lies the body of the one Gaelen called his friend, that Bobby Singer, the one that Samirah jokingly called Eugene.

Chale sees the jaws of the hell beast close around Ellen Harvelle.

_No no noooo-_

In less than a heartbeat Chale shows this image to Sam, Rika, and Tiesen. None of them say anything. There's no need.

No one else can go.

Chale and his horse vanish in a snap of violent copper light.

* * *

Anna turns her back on the school bus yard, stares upwards at the dark skies above. Michael's up there. The real fight is up there, distant glimpses of fiery swords, gold and bronze armor. That's where she should be, where she _wants_ to be, but an angel goes wherever she is needed.

She doesn't see the remaining apocahorses rise to their feet behind her. They carelessly shake off the dead leeches like blades of brown withered grass. Anna doesn't hear anything either, she's so focused on the battles taking place in the sky high over her head.

Someone taps her on her shoulder. It's a light touch, almost friendly, and it makes Anna frown.

_Castiel,_ she thinks as she turns around, her lips curled into a snarl. _No, I don't want to beat Sam Winchester, I told you that before—_

Long slim fingers close around her throat, and she's lifted effortlessly off the ground, her bootheels kicking uselessly against the yellow school bus behind her.

Not Castiel.

Famine grins at her. "Hello, pigeon. This just isn't your day, is it?"

The Horseman stands tall and regal in her white armor. No leeches. No weakness.

_Oh God, Oh God Oh God oh God…_

Anna babbles to herself inside her head, and the irony that she's calling Her name for protection doesn't escape her.

They're loose. The horses are on their feet, standing proud and noble. Anna stares at the Winchester boy and his clothes shift, from that red and blue plaid shirt to elegant bronze armor. War's red armor shines bright and fierce.

Castiel is no longer a factor. War has Glasya-Labolas by the throat.

Anna sees Sam Winchester's right fist connect with Castiel and the effect of the blow is most curious: Castiel's essence separates from his vessel, a bright light framed by soot dark wings. The human vessel sinks to his knees in front of the Winchester boy, but nearly all eyes are on the angel as the force of the blow propels him upwards into the sky. He's a streak of brightness amid all that gloom that soon disappears from sight.

* * *

The scene on the hillside outside Las Vegas is raucous, chaotic. The multitude of gods, goddesses and godlings roared when Abaddon made his appearance. They cheered Dean Winchester's fall. Now that Heaven and Hell fight each other in the streets of the city the mood has gotten even more bloodthirsty. The goddess Kali dances atop the hillside, crooning a loud, wordless lullaby, her eyes bright with the promise of more death.

The sea god Poseidon is having second thoughts. His huge water form boils and churns in his space on the hillside, a watery approximation of his ideal self, stately, human-like, complete with crown, long flowing beard, and trident. He has no love for humankind, none at all. He'd just as soon see every human wiped from the face of the planet. His oceans could recover from the foulness of mankind. His creatures would no longer be fished to extinction. The death of humankind would suit Poseidon just fine.

The problem is Poseidon realizes that he just doesn't care for his fellow gods. They're an unseemly bunch. Crude. Uncivilized, despite their power.

Something streaks down from the dark sky above. Poseidon has a second or so before he realizes that the object is headed right towards him, and that's not enough time for him to avoid being hit. He's struck between the eyes. His waterskin surges outward in a violent splash, and for a brief second the old god is lit up from within by the bright heavenly light.

Poseidon's massive shape boils with his rage. Damn angels. Damn Heaven and damn Hell. This is most unseemly!

The sea god purses his lips and spits the limp form out on the ground before him. He takes his leave then, disappearing in a wave of angry sea green foam.

No one laughs. No one dares.

And no one pays the fallen angel Castiel any attention.

* * *

Anna claws at Famine's hand, and the Horseman tightens her grip.

The rest of the angels, the demons and their human vessels are on the ground now, surrounded by the apocahorses, Nahele, Ajani and Actaeon. The horses' eyes are bright and fierce. They paw the ground, teeth bared, blowing thick white steam from their nostrils with each breath. Neither angel nor demon can escape. The air around them crackles with copper energy.

War has Glasya-Labolas by the throat. The master at inciting humans to pure bloody murder doesn't resemble a President of Hell, commander of 36 legions of demons. He looks like a terrified Golden Retriever, bug-eyed with shock and terror, cringing and whimpering. His eagle wings droop limp and useless. He's lost his power to control.

The crowd of entranced humans draws back from the Horsemen in general and War in particular.

Glasya-Labolas cringes and whimpers. Tiesen flashes a wicked grin at him. "You've hidden behind that furry face for far too long. Reveal yourself. _Now_."

A shudder ripples through the dog's body. The eagle wings grow and expand into dark red leathery bat wings. That cute puppy face broadens and expands, replaced by gleaming red eyes and a thick, blunt snout. Golden fur vanishes, replaced by thick dark red scales. Glasya's mouth gapes. Razor sharp teeth snap and bite at the open air. His formerly bushy tail lengthens and sharpens into a long whip-like tentacle.

What's just as bad as the sight of this newly revealed thing is the smell, methane and sulfur, wet blood and rotten flesh. The human crowd in the school bus yard draws back in horror. Several of them lean over and vomit.

The people watching the live feed worldwide don't feel too well, either.

"That's enough," Tiesen says quietly. Flames erupt from between his fingers. The demon Glasya-Labolas twists and writhes helplessly in Tiesen's grip.

Glasya's flesh one moment, reduced to airborne ash the next, twined around Tiesen's fingers in long faded red streamers.

What happens next, happens fast.

The earth shudders and groans. Sam, Rika, and Tiesen turn towards the disturbance. One by one the yellow school buses at the far side of the yard drop down out of sight. One by one.

The air turns dark yellow. The stench of sulfur fills the air. Huge cracks stitch across the concrete underfoot. The nearest bus drops out of sight. The ground falls away, and below there's a vast, hissing darkness.

The darkness moves.

As the earth drops from underneath him all Sam can think of is one of Dad's favorite Marine lectures: _Just when you think things can't get any worse, they will. _

_Depend on it._

* * *

_TBC later on this week._


	68. Chapter 68

_**Chapter 68**_

God winks at Gabriel. The kid hasn't moved since she told him to stay put.

He can't move, and he wants to. She sees the desperation in his wide, startled eyes. It tugs at Her heart, but she doesn't relent.

God smiles instead. "Got an errand to run. I'll be right back."

She disappears in a blaze of light, and no one on the cruise ship notices.

* * *

The reapers float motionless in their shrouds, pale and unmoving as stone mountains. This is their place in Creation, the place from which they come from, the place to which they always return. It's a vast space, the greyness broken only by thin ribbons of white mist.

God appears in their midst in a flash of brilliant golden light. She doesn't bother to change Her clothes or Her appearance; her wild curly auburn hair, the improbably bright color of Her cruise attire immediately brightens the place.

The reapers move away as Her gaze sweeps over them. God is displeased.

"WHAT IS THIS?" God thunders. "WHAT IS THIS?"

No one answers.

"A BOYCOTT? DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO CALL A BOYCOTT?" Her smile is sharp enough to cut. "IS THAT WHAT YOU CALL THIS?"

Still no answer.

"YOU PRETEND YOU HAVE EGOS. THAT YOU HAVE A SAY IN THIS. YOU DON'T. YOU HAVE A JOB TO DO. NOW GET BACK TO WORK."

The Almighty disappears as brilliantly as she came.

A moment later the reapers fade out, one by one.

They have work to do.

* * *

For a brief second God appears in the wreckage of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Dean Winchester lies a few feet away, pale, unmoving and perfect in repose. She looks at him and the stern look on Her face softens.

"Never said I'd make it easy for you, kiddo," She whispers as She gently strokes his bruised forehead. "Can't."

God disappears.

* * *

Samirah steps out into the open hesitantly at first. The suite is quiet, empty. No possessed humans for once. Mary can somehow sense that the roof is directly above their heads.

The black horse stands quietly. She turns her head, looks Mary square in the eye. "Get off," the animal rumbles, with a flash of her copper bright eyes and a brisk jerk of the head.

"What?"

Samirah shakes her head from side to side. Her long forelock momentarily settles down over her eyes. Mary's fingers twitch with the sudden urge to run her fingers through that fine black hair.

Samirah doesn't notice. "I said get off." She doesn't wait for Mary to answer. "I want you to hide. I'll go up on the roof alone. Buy you as much time as I can. Kill as many wurms as I can. I won't harm your people, no matter what. Gaelen wouldn't like that."

"No."

"No?" The black mare's eyes narrow dangerously. "I said get off."

Copper light flares around her, and once again Mary experiences the feeling of being moved against her will. When the light fades she's not at all surprised to find herself standing next to the horse.

"I said no. Whatever happens, happens to both of us."

"I won't allow that."

"You don't have any say in the matter. I'm not leaving you."

"Are you deaf?" Samirah's eyes flare red. "I_ told _you to hide." She turns in a tight circle to face Mary head-on.

_My God_, the woman thinks. _She's huge. Pure muscle._

Samirah arches her neck, teeth bared, her ears pinned to her head.

Mary stares back defiantly. "You don't scare me."

"I don't, huh?" Samirah snorts steam.

"No. We can stay here and fuss at each other, or we can get moving. I'm betting those dragons can sense it every time you 'port."

Samirah's silence is as good as a _Yes._

Mary nods. "You can move me away from you, but it won't do you any good. I'll follow you. I'll find you, and with the wards on this place it's not like you can get me out of the building and away from here anyway."

Bright hazel eyes stare intently into brilliant copper ones. Neither one blinks.

"I'm not leaving you, and that's final." Mary moves forward. Samirah backs up, moving her head from side to side -

"Stop it. What are you doing-"

-but Mary doesn't stop. She gathers up the reins and silently swings into the saddle.

Samirah sighs. "You're just as stubborn as he is."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," Mary says proudly.

"All right then. Let's go."

* * *

Everyone falls in slow motion.

The crowd of humans Glasya-Labolas used as weapons are in free-fall, screaming and wailing. Castiel's former vessel, Jimmy Novack, is still in shock, dazed and confused, mercifully unaware of what's happening.

The sight of the churning darkness miles below his feet, the chittering sound the things make raises the hair at the back of Sam's neck, chills him to the bone, but he refuses to give in to it.

Another Marine lecture of John's immediately comes to mind: _Never give up control, no matter how screwed up things get…._

_I'm making this up as I go along_, Sam thinks. He reaches out with his mind and grabs ahold of Novack, then extends his influence to the humans. The combined weight of them is heavy, but nothing he can't handle. Sam turns in mid-air, reaching back with his right arm, fingers curved slightly. He can see it, the shimmering edge of his power against the darkness. Line of sight is the key; it goes where ever he directs it to go. Sam throws his power out like a grappling hook and sinks it into the ledge of the ledge of the earth behind him.

The ground crumbles. He can't get a grip.

He tries again, with the same result. There's no solid ground behind him.

Sam strengthens his shields. Maybe they can survive the fall. He tries to push against the air, but they're still headed down.

The air around Sam and the humans fills with a soft copper light.

_Samuel? _Nahele rumbles softly._ I've got you._

"Oh me of little faith," Sam mutters to himself.

The screaming stops. The humans disappear, as does Castiel's former vessel. Tiesen rumbles inside Sam's head: _I sent 'em away. Figured I'd put a scare into them first. Serves them right._

Sam finds himself on Nahele's back, sitting in the saddle. They stand comfortably a few feet from the edge of the newly opened hellmouth. His spotted horse gives Sam a backwards glance, amused and totally proud of himself.

* * *

Anna unfurls her wings, and she just can't believe her luck.

Famine releases her grip.

The angel rises up into the air. The Horseman falls.

_Hmph. Bitch._ Anna turns in mid-air, raises her right hand and gives Famine the finger.

The sly smile Anna gets in return should have frightened her.

It doesn't.

Famine winks out in a blaze of copper.

Anna looks down at herself, and it happens so quickly she doesn't have time to scream. Her skin shrivels, turs pale and wrinkled as it shrinks, stretched painfully tight over her bones. Anna's long red hair falls out. She molts, in a sudden explosion of soot dark feathers, and as her wings falter and she falls backwards into the hellmouth, all she can think of is that she's so damn hungry...

* * *

Rika and her horse Actaeon appear in a flash on Sam's right. Tiesen sits his big red stallion on Sam's left. All three apocahorses practically bounce on their toes, eager to get on the move.

There's no time for anything else.

The dark sky overhead screams. The Horsemen and their mounts look up just in time to see one hundred angels surging down at them in a furious scramble of golden armor, wings, and swords.

_Incoming pigeons,_ Ajani snorts excitedly.

The Horsemen vanish just as the angels slam into the ground around them. Their swords at the ready, the angels look around warily. This isn't what they expected.

Nothing.

Moments pass, and they relax slightly. One of them even laughs out loud. "Cowards. They ran from us."

Sam, Rika and Tiesen come back.

Rika appears in the middle of a group of angels. She's older, taller now, easily Sam's height, fully armored in white from head to toe. The air around her shimmers copper as she projects her power through the crowd. Angels weaken. Their skin grows loose with hunger, but they rush her anyway. Rika breaks the outstretched arm of the angel in the lead. She takes up his sword and in one smooth motion severs his left arm at the shoulder. He staggers backwards into his fellows and she smiles as she turns towards the others. Another angel goes down, a withered bag of bones encased in bronze armor. Rika moves like a dancer among them, in a lithe, balletic motion. The bright sword she wields cuts through the darkness, severing heads and hands.

Rika's horse Actaeon returns. She rears up on her hind legs, roaring, eyes blazing furiously. Normally docile, placid Actaeon tramples several angels. The ones closest to her back up. One of them turns and runs.

He doesn't get far.

Tiesen reappears as a blaze of bright red armor. The air around him thunders as he reaches out and grabs an angel by the throat. Tiesen pours his rage into the angel (_damn misbegotten pigeon_) and the being immediately shrivels at his touch.

The others rush him, dealing blows against his armor. He smiles coldly at them and deflects the blows with his gauntlets as they slash at him with their swords. The crack of his armored fist against their chins and faces is echoed by thunder above.

Tiesen doesn't back away. He grabs one angel and decapitates him with a twist of his hands. He flows through the crowd, breaking bones, snapping necks. Tiesen slaps another's sword away from him and twists the arriors head completely off in one quick jerk.

This is War, after all.

His horse Ajani reappears in a flurry of slashing hooves and bared teeth. He buckjumps, kicking one angel into another.

A group of intruders swarm Sam and Nahele.

Sam collapses his shield until it's just a faint silvery outline around him and his horse. There's a moment horse and rider are completely hidden from view, covered by the crush of angels, bronze armor, flailing wings and the flash of steel.

Dark air pulses, armor crumples as Sam expands his shield outward. Angels go flying, and not gracefully. They land in a heap around the young Horseman and his horse, and then the survivors hastily scramble to their feet.

Sam dismounts. Slowly, almost casually. His bronze armor turns transparent as his power wraps around him.

Nahele angrily paws the ground. He breathes fire and steam, and his eyes blaze red.

The three Horsemen and their mounts stand in the midst of a rough circle of angels. Horses and riders alike have all taken damage: scratches, bruises and blood, yet they stand defiant and proud. They fought fuelled by worry about their missing loved ones, out of fear for Dean and Samirah, for Chale and Bobby and Ellen. They will continue to fight driven by the desire to give back as much hurt and pain as they can.

The angels look worse. Several of them will not rise. Ever.

Heaven's warriors hesitate, and several of them flinch when Sam raises his right hand and waves them in.

"Come on!" Sam roars. "You can do better than that!"

And the angels rush in where only fools dare to tread.

* * *

_**The Roadhouse**_

Ellen sees the tall man in the dusty black suit. At first she thinks he's one of the refugees, come to see what all the commotion is about. She opens her mouth to yell out a warning, and cold terror washes over her as he turns and looks at her with cold white eyes.

_Reaper, _Ellen thinks._ Oh my God-_

A flicker of movement, and he's right _there _in her personal space. The feel of his hand against her forehead is cold and dry.

Ellen shudders underneath his touch. The ties to this mortal world unravel, one by one. As her sight dims she sees the reaper next to Bobby reach out and touch him on the shoulder, and then everything fades to grey...

* * *

Jo Harvelle doesn't see the tall, pale man in the black suit. He materializes out of thin air next to Bastet's bed. The cat goddess takes another labored breath, and then her breath stutters in her throat.

Jo doesn't notice that either.

She's too busy at the moment.

Jo's in the hallway with Ash. They raise their rifles and fire repeatedly, and the beast drops Ellen's mangled body from its jaws and swings that massive head in her direction.

Jo's mind goes white with horror, but she never stops firing. She never notices the tall, pale men standing behind her and Ash.

Reapers blink in, one for each human at the Roadhouse.

After all, they're only human, and still alive.

For the moment.

* * *

Abaddon takes a deep breath.

The Spear of Destiny is sucked further down into his bony flesh, then into his cavernous mouth. It's about as bothersome as a toothpick now.

Abaddon belches bluish gold flame.

He turns in the direction of the MGM Grand, and in a gesture of supreme contempt spits the Spear out much like a child would expel a seed from an apple, or an orange. A thin plume of white dust rises from the wreckage as the Spear hits.

The Horseman is silent, but the Fallen knows he hasn't broken him for good. Dean Winchester still has his par to play.

Life. It's all around him, in all its messy, disgusting glory. Humans still live in this place, hunkered down in quiet, dark places, casting fearful glances from behind shaded windows, staring at those devices of theirs. There are the ones still whole, and the unreaped ones, screaming, trapped inside their ruined flesh.

Abaddon cocks his massive pale head to one side as he listens. Something has changed. He can feel it. He tilts his head up slightly, as he scents the wonderful acrid smell of fear on the wind.

He'll give them something to fear this day.

"Go now," he rumbles. "Gather my harvest."

The locust swarm lifts up into the air around him. They cackle with delight, their sharp gleeful voices grating through the air like claws against chalkboard.

The unreaped ones scattered up and down the Strip near Treasure Island are swept up first, their souls snatched up, finally detached from their earthly remains. The souls are pinpoints of bright white light. The locusts gather the light up with their mandibles, then rise up into the murky air and sweep back towards the Fallen.

Abaddon laughs, and the locusts release the harvest. The souls curve in the air around the Destroyer, bright planets orbiting a dark sun.

It's only the beginning.

The swarm spreads out over the Las Vegas Metropolitan area like tidal wave of dark, churning water. The shock wave reaches out first.

Only the Imperial Palace and the school bus yard remain untouched. The swarm flows around those places, leaving angels, demons, and Horsemen untouched. The battle between Heaven and Hell rages on unchecked, on earth and in the sky above.

Humans huddled together in homes and hotel rooms turn towards the loud buzzing that suddenly fills the air around them. It's the last sound they hear. Their eardrums shatter.

Several tall buildings along the Strip topple like dominos, in horrid slow-motion. The pyramid shape of the Luxor Hotel collapses in on itself. The Statue of Liberty in front of the New York New York casino is sheared off from its base. The head of Lady Liberty is flung high into the air, only to crash into the lightshow canopy on Fremont Street in downtown Vegas.

The main hotel complex of Excalibur pancakes, as does the Bellagio. The pavement ripples like angry ocean waves. More gas lines rupture, already weakened by Hell tunneling to the surface. Man hole covers are flung into the air by the force of the explosions.

There's no escape. Walls offer no shelter. Humans are crushed beneath tons of debris. They burn like dry kindling. Many are blown apart as they sit in their cars, enveloped in fiery orange blossoms of flame as gas tanks ignite. Some fall to earth in elevators as cables give way.

Reapers quietly blink in, slowly at first.

The locusts ignore them too. Abaddon's swarm slices through brick, steel, glass and drywall, as they unerringly seek out warm, living flesh. They hit each human in the space between their eyes, and then arrow out the top of their heads, clutching the bright, shrieking souls in their greedy jaws.

There were 1,951,269 people in Las Vegas.

1,973 of them were reaped. They may be the lucky ones.

The rest suffered a fate worse than death.

* * *

TBC this week.

Next: Dean makes his final stand against Abaddon, and Sam confronts the demon inside John Winchester.


End file.
